


First Impressions

by ItsmeQT



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Grumpy Sandor, boss Sansa, north and south au, period au, petyr is dead but his creep lives on, set in the 1860s because I like hoopskirts and plaid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsmeQT/pseuds/ItsmeQT
Summary: Sansa Stark is the new owner of Mockingbird Mills in the industrial town of Milton. Sandor Clegane is the mill's foreman. When Sansa arrives to take control of the mill, they find themselves immediately at odds. But with a strike looming and the mill at stake, Sansa will have to find a way to get Sandor to work with her or risk losing everything.Heavily based on North and South, except it's mine and I do what I want.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, sansan - Relationship
Comments: 110
Kudos: 199





	1. Chapter 1

The mill yard at Mockingbird Mills was crowded and noisy as usual. The midday meal was long past and the day wasn’t near done. The machines were letting out their customary clacking and thrushing noise, and smoke trailed from the chimneys to add to the clouds that always sat over Milton. 

In the middle of the mill yard, Sandor was supervising the delivery of new machine parts for the large looms that churned all day long. The lads had been trying to drag the things off the back of the wagon for the better part of an hour. The going was far too slow, they were meant to have the damn things put together by now to replace the machines that had broken last night. Everyone wanted to go home, but no one could until the job was done. 

“As if we needed more of them damn looms.” Bronn commented at Sandor’s side. “More looms’ll mean more fluff in the air. Think the new boss will pay out for a fan?” 

Sandor grunted. “New bosses always mean cuts. We won’t see a fan in this mill any day soon.” 

The new boss had been the subject of much nervousness among the mill workers for the last week. The old mill owner, Baelish, stayed away from dirty Milton, leaving others to do the work from which he reaped the profits. That sort of negligence had allowed Sandor to rise to the position of foreman at the mill. 

But now Baelish was dead, somehow, and though reports differed, it was well known that the new boss would be a woman. She was variously rumored to be either the old man’s daughter, his mistress, or his niece. 

As if summoned by magic, a black carriage rattled into the millyard, too late in the day to be an inspector, too shiny and expensive to be anybody else. Nobody dared stop working – except Sandor, who hadn’t been working anyway – but there were a great number of furtive glances under caps being exchanged. Sandor saw faces appear at the windows of the mill. 

“It’s the new boss woman.” 

“She won’t stay.” Sandor said with conviction. Mockingbird Mills was unusual in that it had a grand house directly beside the mill building, forming two sides of the great mill yard. That way the owner, if so inclined, could look out their own parlor window to see their workers scurrying about like ants at any time of the day. Baelish had never lived in the house, though there were rumors about mistresses and maybe prostitutes being put up there. “I’ll wager you an ale she’ll walk about, cut our pay, and be gone by morning.”

The carriage had stopped in front of the house, but from where he stood Sandor couldn’t see who got out, catching only a glimpse of a big bonnet and a wide crinoline skirt in a pale color. That was enough to confirm his suspicions; the new owner was a frilly, trussed up strumpet who knew nothing about running a mill and probably didn’t intend to learn.  
Shaking his head, he turned away in disgust. 

Four times Sansa considered going out into the mill yard and offering money to the men out there to help her carry her trunk in, and each time she stopped herself for fear of what they might think of her.

“This sure would be easier if I had help.” Arya grunted as she dragged yet another trunk inside. 

“I don’t want them to think I’m treating them like slaves.” Sansa said with her hands pressed to her cheeks. “And if you wanted help you might have hired staff. You’ve been here a week.” 

Arya gave her a dark look and went out the door again to fetch more luggage, leaving Sansa and Bran in the dim-lit, grimy foyer. 

“It’s safer this way.” Bran said softly. 

“I know.” Sansa hadn’t really expected Arya to hire a maid, though it would have been nice. Arya was a ghost, and needed to stay that way. In any great city in the south there was constant risk that she might be seen or recognized, but here in Milton they knew no one, and she might have the freedom to come and go as she pleased. She would be free. 

They all would be. 

Thinking of coming and going, Sansa gazed up at the stairs, then down at her brother. Bran was also philosophically studying the curved, narrow flight from his wheelchair. 

“I’m told there’s an office on the ground floor that we could make into a bedroom.” She ventured hopefully. 

“Shall I find it?” Bran’s smile, always as bright and fleeting as a sunbeam, caught her by surprise. 

“Yes.” She grinned back. “You explore the house. I’ll help Arya lug our things upstairs, then make dinner. It'll be like old times.” Impulsively she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “We’re going to be here for a long time, Bran. We’re going to be happy here.” 

_I hope._


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa had been raised in the south, in a house with a garden and a library and a sunroom and a well that was covered over with honeysuckle that tumbled over its sides in just the same way that she and her siblings tumbled over each other in games and fights and school lessons. It snowed pure-white in the winter and glowed bright gold in the summers, and the whole place smelled of flowers and the familiar smoke of her father’s pipe. Her siblings shouted and played outside while inside she played at the piano and her parents entertained frequent visitors. All in all, it had been an idyllic place to grow up.

But here, now, Milton was nothing like that.

Milton was smoky, thanks to all the factories, and the streets wound around each other in a confusing tangle. Their walls were smudged with soot and some indecencies scrawled in chalk; the cobblestones were often uneven, and no matter how far back Sansa craned her neck, she had not seen the sun since they entered the city that morning.

Optimistic nonetheless, Sansa took directions from Arya to the nearest newspaper office. With a single piece of paper clutched firmly in her hand, she set off to advertise for staff.

Arya professed to love their new surroundings, and Bran seemed pleased with the small room they had decided would be his bedroom; it had a window from which he could see a distant cemetery. Nonetheless, the house needed a proper cleaning, and if Sansa was to manage the cotton mill, she would need someone else to cook as well, and maybe a man to drive her carriage. Two or three servants didn’t seem excessive, especially given the money that Mockingbird Mills brought in each year. And that was saying nothing of the profits from all the other investments Petyr had left her.

Sansa tripped over some stairs that apparently would lead her to the street she wanted, when she heard a sharp whistle blow that made her start. In moments there was a thrumming of many feet coming in her direction and then suddenly they were there – a deluge of men and women and even children, pouring forth from one of the mill’s gates and filling the previously deserted street.

They were in on her in an instant, all in a great hurry, buffeting her suddenly here and there. She caught a glimpse of one or two malicious smirks as she was shoved, but most of them seemed to have their heads down as they tried to slip past her and out onto the wide street below. She couldn’t blame most of them; someone from behind caught her bonnet’s ribbons and gave a sharp tug that sent it flying off in another direction. Someone bumped her in front and she realized she’d lost the advertisement she was carrying. Rough fingers grasped her reticule, until an even rougher hand sent the thief flying into a wall.

“Sod off, fucker!” Barked the deepest voice Sansa could recall hearing.

Not surprising, given that it came from the largest man she had ever seen. He came out of nowhere and loomed over the rest of them as he shoved the would-be-thief down the narrow alleyway.

As if by some spell, the crowd emptied itself into the street below and was gone, leaving nothing behind but the large man and Sansa’s now-tattered bonnet rolling around a few feet away.

“I…”

He turned and she caught sight of his face.

“Oh.” She breathed, forgetting herself.

“You’re welcome.” He spat out.

“Thank you.” She managed, making a point to look him in the eyes, both eyes, and not stare at his – well, at _it_.

Her delicately embroidered reticule looked positively tiny in his giant, work-worn hands. She accepted it from him with a bowed head. He seemed to relent only slightly as he handed it over. One finger landed beneath her chin and tipped it back up until she was looking straight into his eyes.

“A word of advice, lass – don’t go hanging around the mill when it’s quitting time. Folk want to get home, get fed. Nobody wants to have to trip around your –” he gestured at her wide skirt “—that. When the work whistle blows, get out of the way.”

“My apologies.” Sansa suddenly felt very self-conscious. Of course, she’d been in the way. The streets were narrow here, and she must have seemed very self-important to take up half the walkway with her hoopskirt. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.” She said it again, automatically. “I’m sorry.”

“And watch out for the lads. They like to pick on a pretty face.” His eyes dwelt in hers a moment longer than was necessary.  
Sansa felt herself blush. She was sure that she couldn’t look that nice, after traveling all day, having to change all by herself, and then having her bonnet knocked right off her head, but all the same his gray eyes made her stomach flip. She was acutely aware of the fact that they were alone and his arms were straining the seams of his shirtsleeves.

Tall and strong, she thought. Nothing like Petyr.

“Here.” She dug hastily in her reticule and pulled out a coin. “For your trouble. Mr…?”

He practically recoiled from her as she offered the money. “I’m no Mister.” He snapped. “Keep your handouts.”

“No, I didn’t mean…you helped me.”

He’d already turned his back and walked away. Sansa gazed after him, openmouthed, the coin in her hand still extended. Remembering her manners, she called a last, “Thank you, sir!” after him, but he was gone.

What a strange man. But then, she supposed, as she searched the ground for her precious piece of paper, perhaps that was how people were here in Milton. Harder. Prouder. Taller. Piercing eyes. Pleasantly northern accents and strong arms with a broad chest to match –

“There you are!” She bent and snatched up her paper. It was stained, but still serviceable. One advertisement for housekeeper, and one for houseboy. And as she reached the end of the tiny alley, she saw the newspaper office, right where Arya had said it was.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa smoothed her hair and resolved to set the man out of her mind. Certainly, it had been pleasant to be looked at in that way, and certainly his gallantry and pride were intriguing, but she was probably only thinking that way because she was used to having Petyr around. Petyr made everything about intrigue, attraction, lingering glances.

But Petyr was dead. She was on her own. And she would make it just fine, with or without any tall fellows in well-fitted shirts that showed just a hint of muscle and chest hair.

Yes, she would.

And yet all the same, she kept a lookout for the tall man on her way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've found that everyone imagines Sandor's burns differently, so I deliberately omitted a description of them. Fill in whatever level of scarring you like.


	3. Chapter 3

“I intend to astonish you all.” Sansa said boldly into her mirror the next morning.

“You already have.” Arya said from behind her, lounging on the bed. She looked supremely out of place on the embroidered coverlet in her dun trousers and boots. “I’m astonished that you’ve changed dresses six times before nine o’clock.”

Sansa cast her a plaintive look in the mirror. “This has to be right. I met a highly judgmental local yesterday, and I've decided I cannot wear the lilac silk. The foreman, this Mr. – ” She waved her hand vaguely. “The odd name?”

“Sandor Clegane.” Arya supplied, kicking her boots against the side of the bed. “Nasty man. I’ve been watching him manage the workers for a week now. He’s always the first in and the last one to leave. Very no-nonsense type. No pawing at the girl workers, which is more than I can say for those bastards at Hamper’s Mill.”

Sansa held up a pair of earbobs for judgment in the mirror. “Then why do you say he’s nasty?”

“You’ll see.” Arya muttered ominously.

It was the sort of foreboding response that might have sent Sansa into a fit of nerves as a child. Now, she only shook her head. “I know you and I haven’t seen each other in years, but as we’re getting to know each other again, let me inform you.” Sansa turned to look directly at her sister. “You can’t rattle me like you used to. I’m not twelve anymore.” _I’ve dealt with scarier people than you know._

Turning back, she set down the jewelry. “I have to impress all of them, but especially the foreman, because I don’t know a thing about hiring or running a mill and I need him to teach me. Now, do you think I should wear the navy with my black lace shawl or the burgundy skirt with the gray Zouave jacket?”

Arya considered, swinging her legs. “That yellow dress with the black lace shawl.”

“Blue and black it is.” Sansa selected a pair of black jet earrings. “No bright colors."

"Don't you _dare_ mourn for that animal."

Sansa was caught by surprise by the vehemence in her sister's voice. "It's nothing to do with Petyr." She said, horrified at what Arya must have been thinking. "This is about now, about how I'll get on with people here."

Arya chewed her lip, studying her sister through narrowed eyes.

One week together after four years apart was not enough time for them to be able to read each other's faces easily. Sansa wet her lips and went on. "I want a life here, with you and Bran, and to have that I need the people who work for us on our side. I can’t seem too frivolous or they won’t respect me. I have to be direct and straightforward. It's the Milton way.” 

Arya's lip curved in a sly smile as her eyes narrowed. “Oh? What did you think of the oatmeal I made this morning?”

“Oh. Well, you know how much it means to me to have a meal together as a family again at long last, and –” Sansa caught herself when she saw Arya smirking in the mirror behind her. “What is it?”

“Is that being direct?”

Sansa glowered at her, relieved that the tension in the room had eased. “Fine. The oatmeal was burnt, if you must know.”

“There it is!” Again, seeing a sibling smile was like sunshine on a cloudy day. 

“Badly.” Sansa added more boldly, grinning herself.

“And?”

“You added too much salt!”

“So?”

Sansa drew herself up and put on her best imitation of her mother. “I must inform you, Miss Stark, that I have found instances of mismanagement in your handling of the kitchen. In addition, I find your fashion advice lacking and your refusal to expand the staff is an issue over which we shall not agree. You lack initiative and thus I shall have to find a replacement for you in both the kitchen and the dressing departments.”

“Thank gods.” Arya flopped back onto the bed. “That wasn't bad, but I know you. You'll try to please everybody. Whatever you do, don’t apologize to anybody and don’t say ‘seems’. It makes you sound weak.”

“Right.” Sansa finished buttoning up the front of her navy gown and reached for her shawl and reticule.

“Leave the bag. It looks stupid. Really bossy people whip things out of their pockets, not bags.”

“Yes. Right.” Sansa crossed the room in a rustle of skirt to kiss her sister on the forehead. Arya made a face but didn’t push her away.

“Take care of Bran. I’ll be back, hopefully before anybody shows up to be interviewed for the servant positions.” With that, Sansa tripped down the stairs, making it out the front door just a few minutes after the clock struck nine. The workers had been at it since seven, which was when the sound of heavy machinery starting woke Sansa. She would get used to the noise, she supposed, though she understood now why no one had ever lived in the house before.

The workers had been at their looms for two hours. They’d have settled in, grown comfortable in their daily routines, yet still be fresh enough that perhaps she might get a few smiles from them when she introduced herself today. She headed up the stairs toward the mill doors, head high and smile firmly in place. She was just reaching for the handle when the huge red doors flew open, knocking her clear off her feet.

She was not the only one who went flying, however. A redheaded man went hurtling past her and down the stairs onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. He had barely landed before another man was on him, seizing him bodily and lifting him off the ground.

“You’ve been caught for the last time, you greasy sack of shite! Get out of here and don’t ever come back!”

Sansa picked herself up, transfixed. Oh, she remembered that voice. She only came back to herself when the giant – _oh, it’s him again_ – balled up a huge fist and slammed it full-force into the smaller man’s stomach.

“Stop it right now!” Suddenly she was at his side and had both hands wrapped around his giant wrist and was pulling on it with all her might. “Let him go!”

He shook her off and landed another punch in the ginger’s face before throwing him back onto the ground. The smaller man scrambled away, crawling and then running like a craven, terrified animal. “I’ll make sure you never work in this town again, you worthless fuck!” The giant roared after him, not in the least bit hampered by the fact that Sansa was again trying to restrain him.

“Stop it this instant!” She shrieked. Remembering an old trick that Arya used to pull, she stomped on his foot with her heeled boot.

“Fuck!” He shook her off a second time, finally turning to look her in the face. “Who the fuck do you–” Their eyes met and for a moment they both fell silent, sharing in horrified recognition. His wide gray eyes ran over her from head to toe, then came back to her face before going to the house behind her, then the mill, then back to her.

Sansa swallowed nervously, hands balled in fists at her sides. He seemed bigger today than he had yesterday, but there was no forgetting his face or voice or the way he could easily threw a smaller person around. She too glanced over at the mill to find dirty faces peering from the windows and a small crowd at the doors, mechanical looms evidently forgotten.

“Back to work!” the giant snapped, and they disappeared in an instant. Sansa jumped at the sheer volume of him.

“It is not for you to order my workers around, nor to abuse them, sir.” She said strongly. At least, she hoped she sounded strong. She felt more like crying. Arya wouldn't cry, and remembering their conversation, she put on a front that she hoped her sister would approve of. 

The giant rounded on her and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at her. “It is exactly my responsibility, Miss, seeing as I’m the foreman in charge of them. And you’d be?”

“Sansa Stark.” She said icily. “Owner of Mockingbird Mills.”

“Sandor Clegane. I’m the one who does all of your work for you.”

They’d both figured it out by then of course. _Of course_ he just had to be the foreman, the very man she needed to like and respect her so she could run this mill and start a new life for herself and her siblings. And _of course_ he had to be terrifically tall and strong and intimidating and yes, even a rather handsome despite the scars. Of course.

Petyr or Arya would have known what to say, but Sansa struggled. “Well,” She said at last. “It seems you will be taking money from me after all, Mr. Clegane.” And with that she turned and swept into the mill, leaving him in her wake.

The mill office was much smaller than the office in the house. There was a clock on the wall tick-tocking steadily, almost synchronizing with the drumming sound of the looms but not quite. The desk was tiny, and looked mostly unused.

Sansa stopped to take in the room for a moment before taking a position behind the desk. Clegane followed her in silently and was forced to stand in the middle of the room. She had to tip her head back to look up at him. “I have come to view my new property, Mr. Clegane, and I find myself unimpressed.”

“You’ve barely looked at the mill.”

“Not with the mill. With you. Is it customary for you to beat your employees senseless in the mill yard, or do you only do so on certain holidays of which I am unaware? Or are you drunk, sir?”

He stared down at her unrepentantly. Yesterday he’d dismissed her and left. Now he knew he had no such option. She could tell from his heavy breathing through his nose that he was still furious.

_Nasty man._ Yes, now she understood.

“He was smoking.”

“And why should he not? Need you be so tyrannical? Can a man not smoke a pipe? Is it a crime in this country to enjoy a few relaxing moments with a pipe?”

“It should be.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if she were an idiot. “when the mill is full of cotton which could catch and burn us all to death in an instant.”

Sansa opened her mouth but found she didn’t know what to say to that.

“Two years ago a man was smoking out by the back way. A stray spark caught and twelve people were burned to death before we could get it under control. Some of them were children. Do you know what a burnt child looks like, Miss Stark?”

Her eyes flicked from one side of his face to the other, taking in all of him. “In future, Mr. Clegane you will discuss firing decisions with me, and if I grant you power to dismiss a worker, you will do so without laying hands on his person.”

“Fine.” His tone was as cold and stubborn as her own.

“Now you will give me a tour of the mill.”

“Fine.” He turned to go.

“Mr. Clegane.” She stopped him. “You will show me the machines and how they work. You will introduce me to every worker by name and tell me what they do. You will show me the mill’s input and output, both product and financial. You will show me the wages and point out which new machines you installed yesterday and why. And at all times from here until the end of our partnership, you will do exactly as I say.”

Clegane regarded her over his shoulder, still resentful. “How long can we expect you to remain with us, Miss Stark?”

Sansa stood and came around the desk to join him, both of them still sizing each other up with frosty looks. “I am under no obligation to answer your questions, Mr. Clegane, but I will tell you. I have put out advertisements for servants and made arrangements for furniture. You may be dismayed to learn that you will not be quickly rid of me; I have come to stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has left comments or kudos on this story. It really means a lot. It has been an incredibly stressful and horrifying week, news-wise, and I hope taking a little time-out for something stupid like fanfic is as helpful for y'all as it is for me. 
> 
> Stay safe, guys!


	4. Chapter 4

An entire day. Sandor had been forced to spend an entire _day_ with the new owner, showing her everything there was to see about Mockingbird Mills. Cold with him, she’d been warm and interested in his workers, asking questions and listening to their answers and running dainty little gloved hands over the machinery as it worked. Seething beside her, Sandor reluctantly had to admit that her interest seemed genuine, and even if it wasn’t, greeting the workers was more than any other mill owner had ever done.

So why, Sandor asked himself as he walked to work the next day, did he find himself still wary of her? There was something there that rubbed him wrong, and yet as he recalled their two encounters, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Sandor disliked most rich folk on principle, but she bothered him personally. 

At first, he thought that it might have been that she was transparently a ‘lady’, frilly and spineless and beautiful. Why, when they’d met that first day on the street, she’d hadn’t even been willing to stand up for herself.

But then again, she’d stood up to him just fine at the factory.

And _that_ was probably it, he decided. She’d yelled at him, in front of employees that were more his than hers. Although, as Sandor’s sister had pointed out at home the previous evening, it probably did look bad when he came flying out the doors and threw Boucher on his ass. Her reaction being justified didn’t make her any dearer to Sandor’s heart, though.

“She stomped on my foot.” He growled. Effie had demanded to see his injuries then, and doubled over laughing when he pointed out a scuff mark on his boot.

“Don’t be daft, Sandor. If she really means to stay, you’ll have to do better in future. You can’t throw a fit every time she looks your way.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Effie had fixed her elder bother with a knowing look over their dinner table. “It’s the way you are with women.”

“It’s not my fucking fault I’m ugly.” He’d grumbled.

“I never said you were.” Effie answered tartly. “And neither did she. So don’t go off on her.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t going off on her that worried him. Quite the opposite, actually. She was prettier than any human had a right to be, and he was a little afraid he might go soft on her. Hadn’t she stopped him in his tracks the other day in the alley? Even angry and resentful, he’d had a hard time not staring at her as he showed her around. _Got to stop that,_ he told himself. The last thing he needed was to be fired for being some kind of lecher. Especially if she really did mean to stay around from now on.

He was in a muddle as he walked to work. He didn’t know what to make of her, or anything she’d done so far. She was new, a complication in the usually smooth running of the mill. Maybe an enemy, and maybe an ally.

Effie was right. He’d have to be careful now that there was someone watching over his shoulder. He’d taken a little more care cleaning his shirt last night, and been a little neater with the razor this morning. Not that she’d notice, probably. All a woman like her would ever notice was his sorry excuse for a face. But it couldn’t hurt. 

“Best face forward.” Effie had counseled.

“I don’t have a best face.” He retorted as he left for work.

Sandor was accustomed to arriving at the mill first, before sunlight had climbed over the tall factories and reached the streets below. In all his years as foreman, he’d never seen anyone in the mill yard before him, so he was surprised when he arrived the morning after Miss Stark’s first day to find her standing in front of the great double doors. She was still as a statue, head bent over a book, her hair only just lit by the lamp she’d set on the wall beside her. The flickering light made her red hair look gold.

Maybe, he thought, just maybe, Effie was right and he did hate her for being beautiful and seeing that he was not. He could have stood there and watched her for ages – if she had been any other woman, and not Miss Stark from London.

“Is there a reason you’re standing outside my mill before the day’s begun?”

She shrieked and dropped her book, nearly knocking over the lamp in her fright.

“It’s me.” He stepped forward hastily, not to steady her but to catch the lamp and make sure it didn’t light anything.

“Yes, I know that now.” With one hand over her chest, panting slightly, she looked more startled than most people would be in her position. She’d taken a few steps back when he’d moved.

Sandor studied her with narrowed eyes. Either she was being melodramatic because of yesterday or she had some very real fear of men advancing on her in the dark, he thought. He didn’t care to press that train of thought too far.

“Why are you here?”

She recovered quickly, stooping to pick up her book. “I’ve come to learn, as I did yesterday.”

“Alone?”

She gave him a look like she had yesterday, chin high and eyes blazing. “I alone am the owner of Mockingbird Mills.”

He shrugged as he slipped past her to unlock the doors. “That’s your own affair. But you might not like what folk have to say if they find out that you spent dark hours alone in the building with a man.”

She sounded more insulted than scandalized. “I do not think you wouldn’t have said that to the previous owner, Mr. Clegane.”

He turned back to look down at her, now standing by his side. As he did with most people, he leaned forward and over her, closer than was proper. It was a stance that worked often to assert dominance, but she met his eyes without flinching as he drew near, even raised her chin a little as he came close. 

“No,” He said, “I wouldn’t, because your father never came to Mockingbird Mills since the day that he opened its doors.”

Perhaps it was the stance, or perhaps it was his tone. She drew back a little, almost melting away from him. “Petyr Baelish was not my father.”

“Not my business.” He twisted the key in the lock and pulled open the doors.

“He was my godfather.” He barely heard her, and had nothing to say in response anyway.

“What will you be needing from me today, Miss Stark?”

She’d extinguished her light when she entered the building behind him, leaving them both more or less in the dark. Though he could barely see her, he heard her come closer. “I have a more questions for you, but of course they can wait if you have work to do?”

Sandor didn’t need to do any mental calculations. The happier she was and the sooner she got what she wanted the better for him. “I can answer your questions now.”

“Wonderful. I’ve been looking over the budget – I studied some of the ledgers you’ve kept last night.”

Wage cuts. He’d known it was coming. Every mill that got a new boss saw a reduction in pay straightaway, never mind that the cost of rent and food went up all the time. Sandor crossed his arms, glad that the mill’s interior was too dark to show her the anger on his face. _Rich folk_. They really were all the same.

Sansa seemed to read into his silence, and quickly sought to fill it. “I noticed that over the last few years you’ve written six requests for a fan for the mill. I wondered you might justify your persistence on such an expensive luxury?”

_Justify? My persistence?_ He wanted to snap at her. _Aye, because God forbid we try to keep the workers alive a little longer._ “It’s a hardly a luxury.” It came out a little more strongly than he’d intended, but he forged on. Effie’s advice be damned; his best face was his meanest one.

“A fan is a solid investment for a long-term enterprise like this one. You’ve noticed the cotton fluff that comes off the bales.” Knowing her eyes would have adjusted enough to the dimness to see light and dark shapes, he scuffed his foot against the floor, causing the layer of debris that had settled overnight to fly up and float through the air again. “The fan blows most of it away, keeps it out of the workers lungs so they don’t sicken from breathing it in. If your workers are healthier, they’ll live longer and produce more and give you an edge on your competitors.”

He could just barely see her slender frame, now surrounded by floating white bits that were coming back down now like snow around her. She had her hands folded demurely at her waist as she listened, looking for all the world like some kind of snow-laden princess. Trying to play the lady again, obviously.

“I’ve heard – that is, it is my understanding that the fluff enters the workers stomachs, not their lungs, and that it helps them to feel less hungry as they work their long shifts. Purchasing a fan would blow it all away and cause them to feel faint with hunger.”

Now he was _very_ glad that she couldn’t see his face well enough to see the incredulous smirk spread across it. “And where, may I ask, did you hear that?” He rasped.

“Pe—Mr. Baelish taught me so.”

Unable to stop himself, Sandor let out a derisive snort. “That man never set a foot in this mill. He didn’t know any more than you do. Less, probably.” _And neither of you has any right to come in here and start telling me how to do my business,_ he thought angrily.

The morning light had started to filter in through the high windows, enough that he took two steps forward and rapidly seized her wrist, pulling her over to the long line of mechanical looms. “Look here.” He snapped. Squatting, he forced her to come down to floor level with him, using his free hand to seize a handful of the stuff from the floor.

“Do you see how much of this sits on the floor? And you met the young workers yesterday; they crawl around in it.” With her watching, he shredded the fluff between his two hands until it fell into dust between his fingers. “Breathing this in all day from childhood on will fill the lungs up something awful. Either they get to coughing so badly they can’t work, or they find better jobs elsewhere and leave. Either way, you’ve killed a good number of your own workforce. And that’s bad for business, see?” By the end of his speech he was practically snarling outright. His anger spent, there was nothing else to do but glower at her.

If only she’d let herself be glowered at. She was studiously avoiding his face, studying the debris on the floor. If she’d been afraid when he’d first arrived, that fear had dissipated, leaving a sort of eerie, distant calm, the same that had rested between them for most of yesterday.

Maybe this would be how they worked together, all stiff and formal. He almost preferred to see her angry, with her eyes snapping like twin blue flames. At least she was easy to read in that way.

He wanted to goad her, if only to enjoy her reaction. His anger had pushed him this far and he wanted her to push back against him, though why he couldn’t quite have said. “I trust I’ve _justified_ the expense in your eyes, Miss Stark?”

Her jaw set at his tone and she turned to look directly up at him, reminding him of just how close they were. “Despite your helpful illustration, Mr. Clegane, I must press the point. After all, you’ve been working in the mill for many years, and you’re clearly – ” her eyes ran over him and she lost a little of her boldness “—You’re, ah, very healthy.”

He tried to ignore the blush that spread over her cheeks. “Aye, well, I didn’t work the mills as a child. And even now I’m here, I don’t actually man the machines myself. I spend a fair bit of time in the office or at the loading docks in the yard, not standing over a machine all day. Go to any other mill in town if you don’t like what I’m telling you. Ask any other foreman.

“Look at Hamper’s.” Effie had worked there for years, and Sandor knew only too well what went on that place. “Hamper can’t keep workers because he won’t take care of them. That place’ll probably fold any day now, and unless you don’t want your mills to follow you’d best get your people a damn fan.”

She raised her eyebrows at his language but didn’t object, to his surprise. Perhaps the little lady was picking her battles.

“I’ll look into it.”

It sounded like a promise, though he told himself not to put too much faith in it. _She’s no different than the other mill owners. Slicksons, Hamper’s, they’re all the same. Don’t be fooled by her just because she’s a pretty little bird._

Someone coughed behind them.

Startled, they both stepped back from each other. Sandor belatedly realized he was still holding Sansa’s wrist and dropped it, pulling away as if burned.

“Bronn.”

“Morning, boss. Miss Stark.” Bronn tipped his cap, an oily grin spreading over his face. “Early start to the day?” His eyes lingered just a little too long on her hand before sliding over to Sandor.

Sandor gave him a look that should have withered his flesh. “Get your machine on and get to work.”

When he looked around, Sansa had already disappeared into the office upstairs. Other workers were showing up, too – Gilly and her little son appeared at the door with Lommy not far behind them. Thank God it had only been Bronn who had seen them like that.

Though that was bad enough. “Why were you holding hands with our lady boss in the dark alone?”

“I wasn’t.” Sandor snapped defensively. “Go get your fucking machine on, you dimwit.” Bronn had to be physically pushed away, snickering. If the Little Bird was watching from above, she wouldn’t like the look of that.

Sandor glanced surreptitiously at the office windows. She wouldn’t like Bronn starting rumors either, but Sandor had a feeling that wouldn’t be that last he heard of that. _Well, I did warn her._

Sansa had lost all track of time, poring over the ledgers in the office. The building shuddered around her with the force of machinery, but she found that after awhile the thrumming grew familiar and almost comfortable. It wasn’t the same as the birdsong outside the parlor window in the house where she’d grown up, but it was far more soothing than the clip-clop of hooves that passed by Petyr’s home in London.

She had adjusted to much in her years alone under Petyr’s guardianship. She could now, too.

She kept her head bent over the financial records in her lap, but again and again her mind drifted downstairs. More than once she was tempted to rise and peek out the windows to see where Sandor Clegane was and what he was doing, but she restrained herself. After all, he could decide to come up and work in his office at any time, and she didn’t want him to come in just to find her goggling out the window like a silly girl.

He didn’t come up, though, even as the hours ticked away on the little clock on the wall.

His record books were meticulous; so much so that she wondered where he’d learned to read and keep figures. He hadn’t sounded sad when he spoke of the mill workers and their plight; he sounded angry, just as he’d been when he spoke of the fire.

Arya had been right about him. He did take care of his own people with a fierce protectiveness. Crude as he might be, she was grateful for that. He was nothing like Petyr, but to her mind that was good.

After the sudden accident that killed most of the Starks, Petyr had taken her under his guardianship, taken her away to London. Her life there had been an endless whirl of fittings and parties and long carriage rides with handsome strangers. At first there had been some comfort in the distraction, but before long she found herself longing for her old home, the company of her siblings, for something real and permanent. Something solid. When she’d finally gotten her siblings back, she swore to herself and them that they’d build something like that for themselves. Together.

Frightening as he was, there was something about Sandor that reminded her of that vow. A determination, a lack of anything frivolous or dishonest. Milton wasn’t anything like home, but if the people here were much like him, that might mean she was doing the right thing for once.

Heavy boots on the stairs made her start. A glance at the clock showed, incredibly, that she’d been at work for hours and missed lunch.

Sandor Clegane appeared in the doorway, where he stopped short.

Sansa, sitting right in the middle of the floor, looked up at him and found a look of surprise on his face, which he quickly schooled into a neutral frown. “Was the desk not to your liking?” He asked drily.

Sansa glanced down at the papers she’d spread across the floorboards and opted for the truth. “The desk is yours, Mr. Clegane. And…I couldn’t fit my skirt under it.”

His mouth twitched in what might have almost been a smile, but again the tight-laced frown quickly returned. 

_Oh, please let it have been a smile. I need him to like me._

“I’ll be out of your way.” She said, gathering a few books and rising gracefully from the floor. “I thank you for your assistance today, Mr. Clegane.”

He made a neutral noise and moved away from the door so she could pass.

Sansa drew abreast of him, then paused in the doorway and turned to look up at him again. “I wonder, Mr. Clegane, if you’ve ever attended any of the meetings held by the Milton men?”

He drew back from her, a signal she already knew indicated his scorn. “I’m not a part of any union, if that’s what you’re about. Managers can’t be union men. It’s not allowed.” 

“Oh.” Sansa had heard Petyr and others complaining about the sins of unions, but it had never occurred to her that she might have to deal with them herself. There was another thing she’d have to learn about, then. “I wasn’t accusing – I received an invitation last evening from a Mr. Slickson.”

He regarded her with surprise. “The owner’s meetings?”

“Yes. Since you run the mill – ”

“I don’t _own_ the mill, and those meetings are for wealthy men with property only. I’ve never been invited, and I wouldn’t go if I was.” He said stiffly.

“I see. I only wondered if you had advice.”

His scowl deepened at something about that. “No, I don’t have any advice.” He ground out. 

Sansa was halfway out the door when she stopped and turned back. “I must ask, Mr. Clegane, do you dislike all mill owners on principle, or just the female ones? Or is it simply authority figures in general?”

His arms crossed again – she wondered if he knew how often he did that – and he drew himself up to his full height to look down on her. “With all due respect, Miss Stark, I don’t see any authority figures here but myself.”

“Oh. Oh really.”

“I earned my place here, which is more than I can say for those slick fools.”

Sansa felt a flash of hot rage surge through her at that. Memories of Petyr’s soft hands and glittering eyes rose to the surface of her mind like bile. _He got what was coming to him,_ Arya had said the night they left London _._

She had to fight to keep her voice even. “I assure you, Mr. Clegane, I’ve earned this mill ten times over. I don’t need to prove it to you. Good afternoon.”

If he responded, she didn’t hear it.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa had been gone from the house much longer than she meant to, but even as she hurried across the mill yard, she made herself stop and say hello to some of the workers who were lunching on the outside stairs. No matter what Clegane thought of her, she would prove him wrong. She didn’t have a head for business, but she was good with people. If she could get him to work with her, they could make a very effective team. And if the millworkers grew to like and respect her, perhaps he would follow suit.

“Would you like help carrying your books, Miss?” A young woman, Mya, asked.

Sansa glanced down at her armload of ledgers and then up at the gray stone mansion. “Oh. Ah, no thank you, I wouldn’t want to infringe on your mealtime.”

Mya had a canny way about her. Her eyes took on a shifty quality as she followed Sansa’s gaze to the house. “Have you family, miss? We’ve seen faces peering out the front window.”

_Oh no._ “Only my brother.” _I told Arya to stay away from the windows_. “He’s lost the use of his legs, so he can’t come out much, but he does love to look out. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to see to him.”

She parted from them with a smile, breezing through the front door at a quarter to three. “Bran? Arya? I’m sorry I’m late, I got caught up.” Sounds from her left led her into the front parlor.

The room was still rather gray, though opening the drapes and whacking the dust out of the old furniture had helped some. Bran was sitting by the window reading in the light while Arya lay sprawled across a horsehair sofa with her boots up on the armrest, running a coin over her fingers. When she saw Sansa, she sat up, her boots landing on the floor with a thump.

“Finally. You were gone forever.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry, I got caught up with Mr. Clegane, unfortunately, and one thing led to another.” Sansa deposited her books in a chair and strode over to kiss Bran’s forehead. “How was your morning?”

“Horrifyingly boring.” Arya spoke for him. “But I did hire you a maid.”

“You what?” Sansa spun to face her. “ _You_ did?”

“I did.” Arya confirmed. Bran was nodding, though he had the grace to look concerned.

Concerned did not begin to cover how Sansa was feeling about the matter. They had made strict and specific plans when they left London. There were rules for living the way they were, and the most important of them was that Arya absolutely had to stay out of sight.

“You’re not supposed to be seen.” Sansa said weakly.

“You were gone all day. And yesterday. You were the one who wrote the advertisement saying that applicants could come to the house, and then you left and didn’t come back. They were on the bell all day yesterday, and after the third ring today I figured I’d do everyone a favor and let one in, and she seemed nice, so I hired her. Her name’s Effie, and she starts tomorrow.”

Sansa sank into an ornate parlor chair and was disappointed to find that it was rigid and uncomfortable. “The rules—”

“Damn the rules, Sansa, I don’t want to be locked in all day!”

“You’re not locked in!” Sansa looked to Bran for support, but he had his hands folded, quietly watching. “You have a whole floor to yourself, and you can go out any time you please, so long as no one knows that you are attached to Bran and I. You have as much freedom as I could give you.”

“I don’t want to spend all day hiding from the damn maid.” Arya retorted. “I don’t see why I should hide at all.”

“You were seen, Arya! The police in London are looking for you!” 

“We are a hundred miles from London.” Arya growled.

Sansa massaged her temples. “It only takes one. I knew a lot of people in London, and if even one of them were to happen to be in Milton and learn that there is a dark haired girl here who loves knives and wears trousers instead of skirts – we’d be finished, Arya. If we lose everything now, we’ll have to run away to Spain, or stay and be hanged for – ” She stopped herself in time.

Arya was not so delicate. “Murder.” She said flatly. “I _did_ it, the least you can do is _say_ it.”

_He got what was coming to him._

Sansa looked again to Bran for support. The sisters had reunited with him later; two days had passed after Petyr’s death before Sansa was able to locate where her brother had been sent to live. She’d brought him to London and housed him in Petry’s townhouse, and he had helped settle Petyr’s affairs and form the plan that had brought them here.

Now, though, he was silent.

Sansa tried again. “We can’t talk about that.” _We must never talk about that_. “When more time passes and Petyr has been forgotten, you can come out of the woodwork, but until then you must stay out of sight, it’s too dangerous.”

“But – ”

“Sansa’s right.”

“Oh, shut up, Bran.” Arya said irritably.

“Two to one.” Sansa pointed. “I win.”

Arya still looked unrepentant, but she shrugged. “Fine. Have it your way. But the maid already saw me, and if we fire her now, she’ll definitely talk.”

“That’s fine, we’ll keep her on. But she can’t see you anymore, and she’s not allowed to go to the third floor.” That floor, as agreed, was Arya’s. She rattled around in it and complained about there being too much space, but Sansa felt bound to offer it to her as a sort of peace offering for depriving her sister of liberty.

Deflated, both sisters fell silent. Bran had wheeled himself over to the chair beside Sansa and was rifling through her pile of books.

Arya followed him with her eyes, taking in the budget books with interest. “What were you doing all day, anyway?”

“Budget things. Mr. Clegane is very direct about what he wants.”

“Fuck him. He’s not the boss, you are.”

“I intend to. Be the boss, I mean.” Sansa looked up at the clock. “I have that business meeting tonight. Will you two do all right for supper?”

“We took care of ourselves for years, Sansa, we’ll be fine.”

“And you won’t let anyone else in the house?”

Arya gave her a death glare that would have made even Sandor Clegane run in fear.

Sansa looked down at her lap. It didn’t feel right to keep Arya penned up like this, but the only other option was to send her away. That would be safer, but none of them could have borne it.

_If only_ Arya hadn’t been seen following Petyr that night. _If only_ she weren’t so distinctive looking with her trousers and her gray eyes. _If only_ she’d come to London and found Sansa few months later…then they could have got away free and clear.

No use dwelling on the past now.

So with all the resolve she had left, Sansa got up to prepare for the meeting of the Milton mill owners.

They didn’t have a coachman or a carriage yet, so she had to hire a ride to Hamper’s fine house. It was a long drive from the noisy industrial district to the quiet elegant homes of the men who made the city what it was.

Sansa had opted for black, since she was technically still meant to be in mourning. Black gloves, black bonnet. Her mother’s cameo brooch was pinned to her collar, and she reached up to run her fingers over it for strength.

_I wish Sandor Clegane were here._ That was an odd thought, but she had a feeling that even the burly, outspoken foreman was easier to deal with than the men she was about to meet. They would have been Petyr’s colleagues, not gentlemen, exactly, but men of wealth and reasonable taste. There would be expectations. She tried to summon back the drawing room etiquette she’d left in London. It felt like putting on a mask that was old and a little cracked.

She rang the bell, faced the butler, was led inside. It was after suppertime, certainly much later than a lady should be making a call, but she was in an unusual position. _The Queen meets with her ministers alone,_ Sansa had reasoned to herself. _This is no different._

“Miss Stark, gentlemen.”

The mill owners were gathered in the what appeared to be the smoking room. All clad in dinner jackets, they lounged around a table, thick rings of cigar smoke hanging in the air over each one. All chatter ceased when Sansa entered the room, and one man, youngest and closest to the door, sprang up.

“Miss Stark! William Slickson, at your service.”

“Mr. Slickson.” She extended her hand with a smile.

He eagerly took the lead, depositing her and introducing each one in turn. “This is Hamper, of Hamper’s Mill. And that’s Marlborough, and Anderson. Oh dear, I’m sorry – shall we put out our cigars for you, Miss Stark?”

There was a smirk behind the words which she recognized as a test.

“Oh, not on my account.” She almost cringed at how pleasant she sounded. Flashbacks to drawing rooms in London with Petyr and Harry, of smiling like a doll, rang in her head. “My father smoked, so I’m quite used to it.”

“Poor Baelish.” Hamper shook his head. “Terrible shame. I do hope they catch the villain.”

“Probably some greedy dolly.” Anderson grumbled. There was some abrupt shifting under the table which Sansa recognized at once – at least one of the other men had kicked him in the shins. Anderson coughed awkwardly. “Or something.”

Petyr’s body had been found outside a gentleman’s establishment in Whitechapel. Sansa artfully chose not to address how they knew that and instead turned back to Hamper. “I thank you for your condolences. My _godfather_ will be missed, I’m sure. But I have every intention of keeping his properties up and running.”

That wasn’t fully true; she, Arya and Bran had quickly liquidated several of his seedier businesses in London and stashed the money away in case they needed to flee again. But no one here needed to know about that.

“I was so pleased to be able to meet all of you, as I hope we’ll be business partners for a long time to come.”

“Are you settling here, then?” Slickson had the same northern brogue as Sandor Clegane had, but it was less impressive, coming from someone so young and fastidiously dressed.

She smiled warmly at him nonetheless. “Oh, yes. My brother and I have settled in nicely.”

“Why then you must let me show you around Milton!” Slickson leaned on the arm of his chair to be nearer to her. “I can send my coach around to get you both at any time.”

Sansa was saved the trouble of answering by the elderly Marlborough thumping his hand on the table. “All right, let’s talk business. There’s talk of a strike coming soon, and when it comes we’ll have to band together. Make them crack, like we did last time.”

“What are their demands?” Sansa asked.

“Fans in all the mills, and men’s wages raised to twenty shillings a week.”

Sansa tried to hide her surprise. Her workers were not paid close to that, and Clegane hadn’t mentioned any wage demands at all. But she had made up her mind to order a fan.

“We can’t let them have it; they’ll shut us out of business.” There was a great deal of clatter and approval of this, mostly expressed with the thumping of fists on the table.

Sansa folded her hands in her lap, aware that this wasn’t something she could be part of. “But a strike would be catastrophic for all of us, considering the current price of cotton.” She said once the thumping had subsided. “And since it likely won’t go down, we need to keep our mills running as much as possible.”

The room fell silent. The four men sat beneath their cloud of smoke and exchanged sidelong glances. 

“Well, we can last longer than they can in event of a strike.” Hamper said snidely. “Starve them out.”

William Slickson reached over to Sansa’s lap to rest his hand on hers. “Miss Stark.” He said kindly. “You’re new to the business, and to Milton. But don’t worry, we’ll show you how it’s done. Now I know Marlborough is a little crusty, and Hamper’s a little greasy, and well, Anderson is the ugliest man you’ll ever meet – ” he laughed as they grumbled in turn “—but we know what we’re doing. You can trust us.”

His smile was boyishly sweet.

Sansa slowly retracted her hand from his. “Thank you, Mr. Slickson.”

Anderson snipped the end off another cigar and carefully lit it. “Let’s talk unions, lads.”

Sansa could feel her smile wearing thin by the end of the night. It was late, very late, and because she didn’t have a carriage of her own yet, she had to accept a ride from Slickson. It would damage her reputation, but she had decided already that her reputation wasn’t going to be a priority here in Milton.

Besides, it didn’t seem like Slickson minded.

“I do look forward to meeting your brother. Every year, the Hampers throw a grand fete. Of course everyone will want to meet you sooner than that. Perhaps you could throw a little soiree of some kind? Your house is magnificent. Staircases twice the size of mine. Or so I’ve heard. Not that my house is small, not by any means!”

Sansa smiled and nodded. It was just the two of them in his tiny phaeton, sitting very close and smelling like cigar smoke.

Her father had only ever smoked a pipe, and despite her politeness earlier the sharp stench from the cigars was making her nauseous. She was grateful for more reasons than one when they finally arrived at Mockingbird Mills.

“Good night, Miss Stark.” Slickson gallantly helped her down by the mill gate. “May I walk you to your door?”

“No, thank you.” Sansa unlocked the little postern door. “I’ll be safe once I’m inside the gates. Good night, Mr. Slickson.” She was glad to be able to shut the door on him and lock it. The mill yard was deserted as she crossed, and she shuddered at the lonely silence.

Home at last, Sansa locked the door behind her and threw herself onto the sofa in the parlor.

“How was it?” Bran asked.

“Men are awful.” Sansa said into a pillow.

“I know.”

“They smell.”

“They do.”

The horsehair was slippery, and Sansa had to sit up to avoid being dumped on the floor. “You shouldn’t read with so little light, you’ll strain your eyes.” Glancing at the ceiling, she asked, “Where’s Arya?”

“She said she was going out.” Bran raised his brows. “She’s very nocturnal these days.”

“It’s probably safer that way.”

“Are you really afraid of being caught?”

Oh, so _now_ he wanted to talk. “I’m afraid of losing everything again. Of losing you two. I had a lovely life in London – sort of – but I was so alone there. I don’t care about the house or the money, I just want to live a peaceful life with people I can trust. And I want to forget about Petyr.”

“And this is what you’ve been reading?” Bran lifted the book in his lap, the same novel Sansa had been reading that morning.

She flushed.

“It’s about a beautiful young woman who murders, and then goes to another part of the country to start over, but is followed and found out.”

“I was reading that long before all this happened.” She reminded him. “Miss Braddon is all the rage in London.”

Bran smiled perceptively. “Wishful thinking, then?”

“Maybe.” She avoided his eyes.

“You’ve got your wish. We’re away together. Try reading something else?”

Sansa got up and kissed his forehead. “I’ll give up Lady Audley’s Secret if you’ll promise not to read past midnight, and always use proper lighting.”

“Promise.”

“Good. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Bran.”

“Good night, Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a day late. I told myself I wouldn't post one chapter till I had the next one first-drafted. 
> 
> The novel Sansa is reading is Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. It was published in 1862 and I just read it, so i wanted to work it in somehow. If you're like me and you like desperate Victorian ladies who occasionally commit murder, it's definitely one to look into.


	6. Chapter 6

Sandor had always been inclined to drink a little more heavily than was needed. Too big and clumsy for working in a mill or factory, he’d spent his boyhood as a potboy selling cheap beers to angry, frustrated men. When they invariably passed out or started brawling, he’d availed himself of whatever they left in their cups. Drink helped him forget, and fighting made him feel powerful, and he’d developed a love of both.

It was Effie who got him to stop. After Gregor – _fuck that bastard_ , he thought as he took a long swig – had finally been carted away for murder, Effie had become his responsibility. Being responsible for someone else made all the difference, somehow, in making him more responsible for himself. With her he’d got away from the pub scene, made himself a better man, good enough that old Foreman Selmy had noticed him and taken him under his wing.

He was a lucky son of a bitch, but he usually didn’t feel like it.

Two drinks in, he cut himself off and paid the barkeep. Effie wouldn’t wait up for him, but she’d wake up when he came home, and he’d feel bad if he roused her too late. He made his way home from the tavern on legs that were only slightly unsteady, hands jammed in his pockets, tired and frustrated.

He didn’t want to think about _her_ anymore. He didn’t want to bring home his work problems for Effie to deal with, but when it came to Sansa Stark it was hard not to.

Male bosses were easy to understand – they were all the same, in the end, and in the end they didn’t care that much about the work. As long as a foreman kept the mill turning a profit, they could spend all their time elsewhere.

Sansa Stark was different; she lived right next door to the mill, he’d have to see her every time he came in or out, and if this week was any indication, she meant to actually involve herself in the business. She had standards, she was interested in the workers – and they in her. More than a few of Sandor’s workers were girls who had been fired from other mills after they’d protested that their bosses were treating them inappropriately. They always shied away from Sandor, which was fine by him. But when the Little Bird had come in, their eyes had lit up, drawn in to her like street cats being offered food for the first time.

He didn’t – couldn’t – trust her. It was about the workers, sure, but it was about himself, too. If she started talking with the other mill owners, they’d fill her head with their nonsense, and whatever good was in her would be driven out. She was young and she was still learning. She’d learn the wrong things from the wrong people. When that happened, it mightn’t be long before he was out of a job.

He was still thinking about her when he heard the clip-clop of hooves along the dark street. Glancing up, he was arrested by the sight of red hair gleaming in the low light.

He recognized the driver – William Slickson, the shithead owner of Slickson’s mill down the road. The Little Bird was sitting prettily next to him in the little cabriolet, hands folded in her lap, smiling as he blathered on.

Just the sight of that smile made his anger rise. _So it’s a cold shoulder and barked orders for me, but for that idiot she’s got naught but smiles? And out this late, too?_

Instantly he knew why. _He’ll try to marry her._ Mockingbird Mills was a profitable establishment, and snapping it up would be a smart business move. All the other owners would likely be trying it too, if they weren’t married.

So she’d marry him and have a thousand of his babies, then. He’d take over her mill, fire Sandor, and run the place into the ground just as he’d done with his own businesses.

The carriage passed him and he turned his head away from its light, hoping for some reason that he hadn’t been seen.

It made sense, though. She was too kind for Milton, too beautiful to stay unmarried, to foolish and young to make it on her own. Weak people like her got taken over, and the rest of the world – people like him – got fucked over.

He had to stop himself from stomping up the stairs to his and Effie’s apartments. He wanted to break something, and when he came into their small kitchen to find his sister still sitting up, he availed himself of the opportunity and slammed the door as hard as he could.

She was practically in the fireplace she was so close to its light, and she was sewing something two inches from her face. She didn’t look up at him when he entered. “Hello to you too.”

“Everyone is shit.” Sandor dragged a kitchen chair over to where she sat and threw himself into it, careful to keep well away from the fire.

“I have news that might change your mind.”

When she looked up at him, he noticed that she was beaming. Her eyes, grey like his, were sparkling with excitement.

“Did someone we hate die?”

“Aside from Baelish?” She quipped. “No. Better. I’ve got a job.”

“You are not going back to Hampers.”

“Not Hampers. Stark’s.” She grinned.

“I’m not giving you Boucher’s job, Effie.”

She set down the apron she was mending and pulled a wrinkled bit of paper out of her sewing basket. “I saw an advertisement in the paper for a domestic. The address is the mill house, so I knew it was her. I thought I’d just go in for a lark, see the house, meet the great lady, but I got it! I start tomorrow – six shillings a week!”

Sandor took the ad out of her hand. “That’s garbage pay.”

“It’s more than I made at Hampers.” She pointed out.

She was right. A man working the mill couldn’t provide for his family alone, and women and children were paid still less.

“We need this, Sandor. Every time I go to the butcher’s or the water pump, there’s all talk of a strike. It’s coming soon, and when it does, you won’t get paid. And you won’t get union dues, either. We need something to live on.”

“We have some saved by.” Sandor said, but even as he did so he knew she was right. What if he really did get fired and he couldn’t afford to look out for her anymore? “You can’t tell her you’re my sister.”

Effie snorted. “No worries. I don’t want her associating me with some big grumpy fool.” She was smiling as she said it, though.

Sandor permitted himself a small smile back. Effie had had it hard as a child, too. Gregor had been a drunken terror to live with, but somehow he’d never broken Effie. She was more stubborn than he was, and though she took an equally dim view of the world, she had a relentless cheeriness in the face of it, as if she were laughing at the cruel masters and the selfish workers who filled it. When they were young Sandor had thought she was addled, but over the years he’d learned to respect her daring.

“All right then,” He handed the advertisement back. “If it’s what you want.” He knew her well enough to know that he couldn’t have stopped her if he’d wanted to.

Effie took up her sewing again with a satisfied smile.

Sandor stared at the glowing fire, as red as the Little Bird’s hair.

“So…” he said slowly. “What did you think of her?”

“Who?”

“The Lit – Sansa Stark.”

“Oh, I didn’t see her. Some other girl let me in, which was odd, since I’ve asked around and everybody says she’s only got a brother. They were both odd types though – the brother’s in a wheelchair and barely said a word, and the girl was bossy as anything. And she was wearing pants. I liked her, though – very direct.”

Sandor turned his head. “She didn’t say who she was?”

“No, not really. But I think she’s living there. Strange, that. But since I didn’t see Miss Stark, you’ll have to tell me what she’s like.”

Sandor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The long week at work and the beer had made him tired, and he wasn’t sure what to say about her in any case.

“She’s real pretty.” Was the first thing out his mouth.

Effie laughed out loud at the look on his face.

 _This is why I shouldn’t drink._ “I mean, she’s a lady.” He hastily covered for himself. “Frilly, and all that. Never been to Milton, doesn’t like our ways. I saw her out with Slickson. I’ll wager he snaps her up before the year is out.”

“If she was frilly she wouldn’t have come here.” Effie pointed out. “And she wouldn’t have put up with you.”

“Maybe not.”

Effie gave him a knowing smile. “I’ve a little more faith in a woman boss than a man, and I’m no fool. Try hoping for something, Sandor. You might be surprised at how it turns out.”

The workweek had ended and the men were all off at their union meetings, but Sandor’s feet still strayed to the mill. On the surface, he was telling himself he was checking up on the new looms – one of them was catching like there was a problem with the mechanisms.

On the inside, he wasn’t sure why. Effie was walking a few feet ahead of him, a spring in her step as she headed off to her new job.

“Good luck.” He muttered as they parted ways at the gate. She proceeded to the great house ahead of them, while he turned to the right and slipped through the doors of the mill. They were unlocked, to his surprise.

Inside, the building was silent and deserted. He clumped up the stairs and was again stopped short by the sight of Sansa Stark, sitting on the floor in his office. She was curled up, very different from her normal straight-backed stance. She looked like a different person somehow, less frilly. Her hair, normally in an elaborate updo, was simply braided and hung over her shoulder. Sandor’s fingers itched to reach out and touch it and see if it was as soft as it looked.

 _Oh,_ he thought as she raised her head to meet his eyes.

_Oh, that’s going to be a problem._

“Can I help you, Mr. Clegane? The mill’s closed today.”

“Came in to look at the machinery.” He managed.

She had nothing to say to that. Her head lowered again, and she went back to perusing the paperwork.

Still he lingered in the doorway. “There’s talk of the workers turning out soon.” _Look at me again. Look at me and don’t look away._

She did not. “I am aware. It was discussed at the owner’s meeting last night.”

He had a sudden dastardly thought about why she mightn’t have done herself up today; perhaps Slickson had kept her occupied late into the night. His fists clenched of their own accord, and he put them behind his back where she wouldn’t see. “Did you get on well, then?”

She finally looked up again and studied him as thoroughly as he could have desired. “Is there something you’d like to know, Mr. Clegane?”

He gazed back, not sure what to answer. He wanted to ask about the future of the mill but couldn’t without making it sound too personal, and above all he did not want to have a personal interest. That was an impossibility.

But she was waiting.

“I heard a rumor you and Slickson got on rather well.”

A flash of anger blazed through her eyes and then died just as suddenly. She was damn good at composing herself on the spot, better than he’d ever been.

“I expect a long and professional relationship with all of my peers, Mr. Clegane. There is nothing else to say on the matter.” She said frostily.

“That’ll hardly satisfy the gossips, Li – Miss Stark.”

Her eyes narrowed before she decisively lifted the papers sitting on her lap and smacked them on the floor to her side, scooting her pen out of the way in one quick movement. Rising to her feet, she crossed the small room to close the distance between them. It was the kind of authoritative advance that Sandor himself had used many a time on rebellious workers, usually followed by him leaning down far over them till they were quaking in their boots.

But he was surprised when she used his favorite tactic against him – she reached up and tugged his shirtfront until he was bending over to look her in the eye. When she spoke, mere inches away, her voice was as firm as her grip.

“I have spoken to you before about this, Mr. Clegane. I don’t care to be gossiped about for doing the same things that a male mill owner would have done. I have no intention of marrying anyone, so my reputation is of no importance to me at all. If your workers are asking questions about their futures, let them know that. Anything else is unnecessary.” She released him and turned away to go back to her spot on the floor.

“I intend to look out for them.” She tossed over her shoulder. “But I can’t do that if they turn out. I need time to get the money in order. I hope to raise wages some, but I can’t do it this week. Tell them that, too.”

A week ago Sandor would have laughed derisively. _Get the money in order? What, aren’t you swimming in it? Why should we wait to feed our families while you hire staff?_ But for the first time since meeting her, he found himself believing her.

And that was horrifying.

He turned his heel and scuttled down to the mill floor and the safe company of the machinery, which never did anything unexpected and never made him change his mind. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!” The loud rhythmic chanting was enough to rattle the windows of the meeting hall. Fists were raised and hats were thrown in the worker’s fervor. Men and women from all five of the great mills had gathered together, as they frequently did, to discuss their grievances.

It wasn’t the politics that interested Arya, though. There was a brawny lad from Marlborough’s – Gendry, they called him – who seemed to like going about in shirt sleeves. Perched on a rafter high above the crowd, she’d admired the view while listening to the worker’s plans.

Now, though, her eye was drawn elsewhere. Everyone was shouting and excited, except one fellow she recognized as one of Sansa’s workers. Red haired and greasy looking, the one they called Bronn had been silent at the back of the meeting hall all evening. Now, as the date and time of the turnout were determined and things reached a fever pitch, Bronn had slipped out the door and into the night.

Arya gnawed the inside of her cheek while she tried to decide whether to follow. Gendry was putting his jacket on, which meant the show was over for her, but there was little purpose in following Bronn anywhere. Dinner would be on the table at home, and much as she enjoyed her freedom, there was a part of Arya that longed for the simplicity of home that she’d lost years ago.

Slipping out the high window she’d cracked to get in, she crossed the rooftops of Milton, light as a cat as she made her way home.

After the accident had ripped their lives apart, after Sansa had been whisked away by their never-before-heard-of godfather, Arya had decided she’d rather make her own way than trust Baelish, and had slipped from his hands and out onto the streets. The resurrection business wasn’t strictly legal, but it was educational, and she’d made enough to get by – and learned a bit about London’s seedy underworld while she was at it. Living on her own resources was a natural choice for her willful personality, but now that she was back with Bran and Sansa, she was having to stifle that part of herself.

Which was difficult. She roamed the city at night, picked pockets when she could and handed off the money to street orphans. During the day she played with her knives and helped Bran get by. But without the need to make her own living, life had become almost unbearably dull in Milton.

_The pack survives,_ Father had always said. _This is my pack. Got to stick it out, no matter what._

Home at last, she hopped the wall that ran around the property and paused, crouching behind an overgrown brambly bush. The back door was only a few feet away, and the maid was coming out of it.

Effie. Arya narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like to admit it to Sansa, but her older sister had been right. She shouldn’t have let Effie know she was here. Fortunately, Arya knew how to keep a loose end tied tight.

She waited till Effie passed her and had her hand on the latch of the back gate before popping out.

“Hello.”

“ _Mother of –”_ Effie jumped, gasped, and promptly fell into a coughing fit.

Arya waited for her to finish, standing with her hands behind her back. It was a nonthreatening position, but she’d found that an odd little girl in boy’s clothes was enough to unnerve anyone, and hiding her hands from sight only made folk more nervous.

And like a charm, it worked. Effie was a head and a half taller than her, but those gray eyes narrowed as she stared down at Arya. “You again.” She glanced at the big house behind them, then back at Arya. “ _Who are you_? I know you live in the house.” 

“And I know you’re the uppity foreman’s sister.” Arya answered smartly.

The pair gazed at each other, at an impasse.

“I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell anyone, even your brother, that you’ve ever seen me, and I won’t tell my sister you were sent to spy on her by her own workers.”

From the minute they’d met, Arya had known that Effie was the street smart type. She knew that debating the charge would be pointless – They both knew that Arya could say it, and Sansa would believe it. So after only a moment’s thought, Effie gave a firm nod. “Deal.” When Arya spit into her palm, Effie followed suit and they shook on it.

“Good night, Effie.”

“Good night…you.”

“Arya. Not that you’ve ever seen me.”

“Good night, Arya-that-I’ve-never-seen.”

_Easy as pie_ , Arya thought as she let herself into the house. Now to tell Sansa about the union meeting.

“This is bad.” Sansa’s hands were worn out from wringing.

Bran nodded his agreement as Arya finished telling of the worker’s plans to strike that week. For a moment, the siblings sat in silence.

“Can you pay what they’re asking?”

“No.” Sansa looked to Bran for confirmation and he nodded again.

“Sansa and I have both been going over the books. Clegane runs the place well and frugally, but with the cost of cotton what it is we’ll be losing money either way.”

“We could raise them a little.” Sansa said.

“But not as much as they want.”

“No. We still have to be able to turn a profit or we can’t meet costs.”

“Well.” Arya said, “You’ll have to do something. All the workers, from all the mills, are banding together on this. No one in Milton gets paid till they get what they want.”

“I know.” Sansa already knew what she had to do, but she was dreading it nonetheless.

She’d been avoiding Sandor Clegane for the last few days, ever since she’d yelled at him – well, she hadn’t been _yelling_ , but she had been very fed up with men as a species, and she’d told him off about it. It wasn’t the first time she’d told him off, and knowing it wouldn’t be the last was exhausting.

Fortunately, he’d stayed out of her way as well. She hadn’t gone to the mill, and the one time they’d almost crossed paths in the yard he’d turned right around and started going the other way the moment he’d seen her. In London it would have been terribly rude, but here she was simply glad not to have to lock horns with him again.

That ended now. Necessity drove her through the next day. She had to choose the right moment, and knowing he’d be resistant, she chose the last moment in hopes he’d be too worn down to argue. The mill had gone silent and the workers had all departed before she headed outside, perfectly dressed and coiffed. Last time they’d spoken she’d been something of a mess, with no corset on and her hair in a braid. He was supposed to see her that way, and she didn’t intend to appear so before him again.

“Mr. Clegane.” She had to force herself to keep her voice from turning his name into a question. She wasn’t asking for his attention, she was demanding it, she reminded herself. _I’m the boss. He works for me. I’m the boss._

He stiffened visibly when he heard her, not turning around as he locked the mill doors.

“Miss Stark.” Very businesslike, but his rigid posture spoke to some kind of tension within him that she couldn’t identify.

Sansa cut right past that. “It’s my understanding that there’s to be a strike very soon. Pay day is tomorrow, and the workers intend to ask for a raise then. If they don’t get it, they’ll turn out before the end of the day.” 

He took his time locking and securing the mill doors before he turned around to face her. “And where did you get that information?”

As usual, he’d moved forward as he spoke, and as usual, she didn’t give ground. “I have my sources.”

He was looking down at her, arms crossed and straight-faced, but there was still a stiffness to him that she wasn’t used to seeing. He didn’t seem surprised at her news, so perhaps he was only nervous about what was coming.

“Will you give them what they want?”

Sansa fought the urge not to fidget with her hands. “No. My brother and I have been looking over the books all day, and the most we can raise them to is eighteen.”

“Not enough.” He pushed past her and headed for the gates.

Sansa followed. She knew his routine; at the end of the day when the mills fell silent he’d walk around the premises, secure all the doors, then lock the mill and finally, the gates. She waited while he dragged the heavy gates together and looped the chain around them, locking them in.

“Mr. Clegane.”

“I don’t really see what there is to discuss.” He said over his shoulder.

_Nonsense_. He was angry that she’d gone off on him too many times, and now he was simply going to blow off whatever she said. She wasn’t sure she could do the same thing she’d done last time – the element of surprise was probably all that had kept him from tearing away from her. But she had to try.

And she had to keep him on her side.

“Mr. Clegane.” She closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his arm while he fumbled with the lock. _Gods, but he’s muscular,_ she realized once again.

He stilled under her touch, and he heard him breathe out through gritted teeth. “You’re the boss, Miss Stark.”

“Yes. But they know you, and they respect you. I’m asking you to speak to them. I’ve seen how you care for them and for their safety, and they must know as well that you have their well-being in mind. Tell them that I mean to take care of them. I am trying to meet their demands, truly.”

He made a sound that was almost a laugh. “You want me to talk them out of turning out?”

“They’ll listen to you better than me.”

He’d turned to face her again, hunkered down a little so they were closer and she was looking up into his face. This close, it wasn’t the kind of pose they could have assumed on the street, but with no one else around, there was no reason not to. She gazed up at him in earnest, quietly praying he’d relent just this once.

“I’d owe you a great deal.” She added. “You could name your price, once this is all over.”

Something flickered past his eyes then, something she couldn’t quite identify. The same dry, coarse laugh dropped from his lips. “You’ve nothing to offer me, Little – Miss Stark.”

_Little Miss Stark?_ She withdrew her hand. Several responses came to mind, but she restrained herself. Hands squeezed into fists, hidden in the folds of her skirt, she tried again.

“You and I both know that keeping the mill running is what’s best for everyone.”

“Exactly.” He countered. “You’ve never had to live on fifteen shillings, have you? They wouldn’t be risking it all unless they had to.”

Her spirits sank. “All I’m asking is for you to talk to them. Every other mill owner is using threats and intimidation to shut down the union. I want to treat my people differently.”

“Then do.” He shrugged and pushed himself off the gate.

“Mr. Clegane.”

He was already halfway through the small side door. Her plans were slipping through her fingers, and she followed him out onto the street with a reckless panic, catching him by the coat again before he could head for home.

“I’ll raise them next time. I’ll give them eighteen this time and raise them to twenty the next time they ask.” She could do it, maybe, if she cut her income again and didn’t have anything new for awhile. The house was paid for, all she needed for herself was money for necessities and to pay Effie.

“They’ve heard that before.” He countered. “They won’t believe a word of it.” 

_Why must you be so difficult? I’m trying!_ She longed to take him by both shoulders and shake him until he understood that she meant what she said. But he wouldn’t, of course. He hated women and wealth and bosses, anyone he didn’t think understood or cared –

“What about you?” She asked suddenly.

There. The look of surprise and a little confusion on his face was satisfying beyond belief. Getting a reaction out of him at all felt like a victory.

“What are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t care about you?”

He stared at her, wet his lips, stared some more, and finally answered. “What?”

“What will become of you? You’ll have no income either, and you aren’t part of union. This isn’t just about the mill, it’s about the people. That includes you.”

He made no attempt to detach her grip from his lapel, but she felt like she’d lost him all the same. The confusion in his face evaporated, and suddenly it felt like a wall had gone down between them. “Workers strike every few years.” He rasped. “I have a bit saved against it every time. I wouldn’t have to if the workers were paid well for their work. So aye, I’m on their side. And no, I won’t talk them out of it for your sake.”

“What would I have to do to change your mind?” _Keep your voice strong, Sansa. You cannot get upset or he’ll laugh in your face._

He took his time looking down at her while he thought about that. His eyes ran over her face more than once, before he seemed to decide on an answer, and looked away.

“You still don’t get it. I shouldn’t be surprised; you’re wealthy, so you think folk like me can be bought.”

“No, that wasn’t – ” Oh Gods, she’d done it again, just like the first time they’d met when he’d recoiled from her offer of coin.

“Doesn’t matter. Because whether you understand or not doesn’t change my answer. You’ve got one day left to change yours.”

He removed himself from her grasp with ease and strode away down the street.

Standing there alone, Sansa felt strangely bereft. There had been a dozen arguments she’d prepared to use on him, but in the end they all fell away because when it came down to it, Sandor Clegane didn’t care about the rising price of cotton or the disruption in the market or any of that. He was the one person she needed on her side more than anyone else, and he was the one person she couldn’t win or buy at all.

_What does he care about?_

_And how do I learn to use it against him?_

She banished the last thought from her mind. It was the sort of thing Petyr would have said, and she was still washing her mind clean of him. _Clegane is wrong. I’m not like Petyr. I do care about people._

Feeling lost, Sansa stood looking after Sandor until she remembered herself and returned to the safe walls around the mill and the house. Hopefully no one had seen her clutching at him like some kind of wanton woman.

She shut and locked the postern door and returned to the house. Bran and Arya were sitting in front of the parlor window, and both watching her return with serious faces.

“He didn’t listen to you.” Bran observed. 

“No.” Sansa felt wilted, like a flower under too much sun. “He won’t talk to them.”

“Then, I guess we’re all fucked.” Arya said.

“Yes.”

“Them more than us, though.”

“Yes.”

One day. They’d ask for their raise tomorrow. She’d have to try to talk to him again tomorrow morning, but she was sure already that he wouldn’t listen.

“Was he mad?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. He was standoffish. He always is.”

Bran was philosophical, as always. “At least with no workers around Arya can have the run of the place.”

Sansa forced a smile. “That’s true.”

“And we’ll get through it.” Bran said. “We have the money to weather it.”

“I’d rather use that money to help raise them a little and then raise them again when we have more in the coffers.” Sansa said. “A strike means we’re just throwing the money away.”

“We have enough money to throw away.” Arya said in a low voice.

Sansa said nothing to that, but it stung. It was true, and that probably was why. The three of them, rattling around a giant house wearing new clothes and eating well, could afford to survive a strike. 

But few others in Milton could say the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super blown away by the continuing reception to this fic! Thank you all for the comments and kudos! 
> 
> The 'resurrection business' that Arya refers to is a colloquialism for grave robbing, which was a pretty profitable business in Victorian England.


	8. Chapter 8

The machines stopped at ten minutes before closing time.

Sandor was sitting in his office when he felt the whole building go still, as if it had woken up from a long and unpleasant sleep. He knew the time before he looked up at the clock.

The workers had asked for their raise, and been denied it. The plan, according to rumor, was to stop all machines ten minutes to eight and walk out. The workers at Mockingbird Mills weren’t alone as they shut down their looms; every mill worker in every mill across the city was doing the same thing at the very same time.

Sandor went out onto the landing above the mill floor and looked down at them as they filed out. One or two dared look up at him.

_Good luck,_ he wanted to say. He didn’t dare. If the Little Bird had spies telling her union plans, she probably had spies on him too. He was on thin enough ice as it was.

Bronn was the last one out. “Good luck, boss.” He smirked, saluting cheekily as he left, his jovial tone at odds with the seriousness of the others. 

Sandor only grunted in response.

_Well, that’s that._

The worst thing about turnouts was the sleeping. Without any work to do, his body wasn’t tired enough to sleep through the night. When he woke, there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but lie awake staring at the ceiling long after Effie had gone to work.

The same question returned to him every morning: _What if the Little Bird was right?_ Perhaps he should have tried to talk them out of striking, not for his own sake but for theirs. She’d done everything but get down on her knees and beg, but no matter how big her blue eyes got, he’d hardened his heart. _She’s not one of us, she comes from the top. Maybe she’s not like the other mill owners either, but I can’t trust her all the same._

Worse, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself with her. He wasn’t sure if his desire to yield to her wishes was about his concern for the workers anymore, or if it had to do with being in her good graces, getting whatever reward she’d promised him.

He officially liked her more than a foreman ought to like his master, and he certainly thought of her more than a fellow ought to think about his boss, especially when he was lying at home in bed with naught to do.

Every day was the same; he’d force himself out of bed and do do what he always did during turnouts; walk the streets obsessively, try to avoid the usual pubs where he might get into trouble. He spared a few coin for a penny blood he knew Effie liked and maybe a few sweets for her when she came home. The days blended together as the strike dragged on. 

For the first week, everything was silent. Sandor couldn’t abide sitting at home, especially now that Effie wasn’t there. He walked the city obsessively, avoiding everyone for fear of being accused of sympathizing with either the union or the owners. There was no place for him in either group, so he stuck to himself and tried to while the days away.

The second week of a strike was always when people began to go mad. Bored workers with no work to go to started to drink too much and fight each other. The second weak was when the cracks started to show and people started to grumble.

The third week…that was when the boredom and the drink reached their peak, savings began to run low, and the rent collectors started cropping up. The third week, Sandor knew from experience, was when things truly got ugly.

Three weeks. Sansa had known in some kind of cerebral way that things might last this long, but she hadn’t thought about what that meant. How many days would be spent silent and idle in the dusty old house, how many hours to fill with embroidery and playing the cracked piano in the parlor, or playing chess with Bran. Sansa, who found herself shunned by the other owner’s wives, didn’t even have social calls to look forward to to relieve the monotony.

Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted people in her house, asking questions about her life. She had Bran to keep company in the daytime, and Arya in the evenings. There was a new member of the household, too – Effie had the work ethic and manners of Milton folk, and Sansa found herself instantly charmed by the maid’s frankness. Effie wasn’t what might be considered ‘suitable’ company, but she was enough for Sansa.

_After all, there’s lots about me that makes me unsuitable. Just nobody knows about those things._

“Effie.” She pounced the moment the maid came in the door. “Did you get it?”

“I got it.” Effie held up that day’s copy of the penny dreadful series they’d been reading together. “I read some of it on the way here. Believe you me, you are not going to like Mr. Corbet when you’ve read this chapter.” She glanced down at Sansa with a knowing smirk. “No corset again today, Miss Stark?” 

Sansa returned her smile in kind. “If I’m not to go anywhere, why should I?”

Effie laughed and went to the kitchen to put away her basket and shawl, and Sansa followed her in, a question on the tip of her tongue.

“What are you going to do today?”

“I thought I might run a few errands. The butcher’s, the grocer’s, that sort of thing.”

The thought of having someplace to go and something to fill the time practically made Sansa salivate. “Actually…I had wondered if I might ask you to go out with me on an errand, if you’re not too busy.”

Effie came up from poking at the stove rather quickly. “Why?”

“Well…I had thought that perhaps some of the workers might not…” Sansa looked down at her hands. “I mean, if my workers were doing well. Or not.”

“You want me to spy on them for you?”

“No!” Sansa gasped. “I wanted to visit some of them and maybe bring some needed items. To look after them.”

“Oh.” Effie’s brows knitted together. “If you must.”

“I think it’s my moral duty.”

“Only a wealthy woman would say that.” Effie said drily, wringing out a rag to scrub the breakfast table. “You’ve no idea what’s really out there, do you?”

“I expect you’ll tell me.” Sansa said, bracing.

“You’re one of the masters.” Effie didn’t look up as she scrubbed. “If we go to the grocer’s together we’ll pass a half-dozen people who’ve no work because of your kind. If you stay in your little castle, nobody’ll hurt you, but if you go out, you must expect some heckling. It’s been three weeks. Men and women want to feed their children.”

Sansa looked at her hands, at the floor, anywhere to avoid Effie’s gray eyes. She was absolutely right, of course, and they both knew it.

“I’m sorry for all of this.”

Effie snorted. “It’s not me that needs an apology. I’ve got a job.”

“I do want to help, I tried.” Sansa defended herself feebly. Pulling out a chair, she sat in it and stared down at the now-spotless table, tracing the grain with her fingers. “I wish this hadn’t happened. I do mean to raise them, but it’ll take time to correct the books from the way Petyr used to run things.”

Effie put a kettle on the stove and said nothing.

“I do mean to go, even without you.” Sansa said. “But I’d like your help if you’re willing to offer it.”

“And I suppose you’ll be dropping coins in the beggar’s hats as well?” Effie’s dry sarcasm reminded Sansa a little of Sandor Clegane. It sounded like a dare, and she didn’t intend to lose.

“Yes, I will.” She answered. “I do care about my workers, and I mean to prove it.” She clenched her hands into fists. “I’ll show Sandor Clegane.”

Effie let off a laugh that turned into a cough.

“He’s very judgmental and thinks the worst of me.” Sansa explained. “I’ve got to prove myself to him, apparently.”

“Good luck with that.”

An hour later, they were arm in arm as Effie led the way to the Princeton district. Sansa, grateful to have somewhere to go, tipped her face up to get some sun under her bonnet.

“When first I came to Milton I thought it was all gray and dismal.” She said. “But it has a charm of it’s own.”

“No.” Effie answered. “You were right at first. It’s all dismal.”

“It’s might not be, if the people were happy.”

“That’ll never happen.” Effie predicted.

Sansa was tall for a woman, but Effie was taller still, and with her long strides setting the pace the pair soon found themselves in a neighborhood Sansa had never seen before. All of Milton was dim and gray, but here the buildings leaned closer together and there was more refuse on the ground. Sounds echoed and smells amplified as they passed through narrower and narrower streets. _So this is how the other half lives._

“Here’s Boucher’s.” Effie waved at a tiny child sitting in the doorway and offered her a basket. “For your mother. Give her my best, mind?”

Sansa stood back, clutching another basket close to her chest. Boucher, she remembered, was the man who had been fired weeks ago for smoking. Another pang of guilt went through her chest. _I might have given him another chance._

“I feel horrible.” Sansa murmured as they moved on. “I didn’t know he had children.”

Effie snorted. “Boucher was always a liability. There’s a reason no one else will hire him now. Everyone is helping as they can, but if Boucher didn’t want to have to support so many mouths, he ought not to climb on top of his wife so often. Let the poor woman sleep.”

Sansa gaped and blushed at Effie’s frankness. “Effie!”

“Well it’s true. It’s the wives I feel sorry for in all this mess. All most folk want is enough money to pay the bills and still have a little left over for the beer wagon at the end of the week. But see, the husbands won’t give up their little luxuries, even if it means no money for the kids to eat.” She coughed into a handkerchief and then added drily, “Something I’ll never have to worry about.”

Sansa had noted the ever-present cough a few days after Effie had started working. Again, she felt the sting of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Effie waved her off. “I don’t like it, but I must get on. Being cross at everyone won’t clear me lungs.” She slowed and took Sansa’s basket as they approached a rickety building. There was a flight of stairs outside the building leading to the higher floors, and Effie mounted them, seemingly unencumbered by her skirts or the large basket in her arms. “Stay here. I’ll handle this next one myself.”

Sansa watched her go with trepidation. Effie had a natural confidence that in London might have come off as brashness, but here was perfectly reassuring. Alone, Sansa felt very exposed. She could almost feel eyes on her from nearby windows, and wondered people resented her as much as Effie said they did.

One moment she was looking down and fiddling with her gloves, and in the next, when she looked up, Sandor Clegane was in front of her. Like a looming shadow from her dreams, he manifested in front of her, making her stomach flip and her breath come short all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the fact that she hadn’t seen him in three weeks, but the moment he appeared she felt a dizzying rush of relief well up inside of her, an appreciation very much like the first time they’d met.

She tried hard to remember the last time she’d felt that when a man approached her and couldn’t. Not even for Harry, the only man in London who had seriously courted her.

“Hello.” She said, still surprised. _Thank Gods he’s doing all right._

Then he spoke, and all her good feelings were suddenly tempered. “What in the Gods names are you doing in this neighborhood?”

“I’m delivering a basket to people in need." She realized as she said this that she had no basket, Effie had taken it and she was standing there in the street holding nothing but her little reticule embroidered with silver thread. “I mean, I _had_ a basket. I gave it away.”

_Please don’t try to fight with me, I’m utterly tired of arguing._

To her eternal gratitude, he didn’t. Well, not exactly. “It’s not safe for you here.” He said after a moment, making a quick, impatient gesture with his hand. “You’ll be torn limb from limb if you run into the wrong people.”

For once if didn’t sound as if he were trying to punish her. Was he…concerned? She studied him carefully, noting that he looked tired. Perhaps he was weary of arguing too. There was a shadow of stubble on his chin, and in his hand she spied a copy of a penny dreadful and a box of sweets. _For a sweetheart, perhaps?_ She wondered.

For some reason, she didn’t like that idea.

“Miss Stark.” He said, more forcefully, and her eyes snapped up to his. “You put a lot of people out of jobs. It’s been three weeks now, and folk have nothing left in their bellies but anger. You can’t afford to be here.”

“On the contrary, I think I have a duty be here, and I think my workers will respect me for it.”

“For fuck’s – ” He turned away and swore under his breath. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'never listen to anyone else'. 

Sansa stepped closer, willing him not to leave. “How have you been since the turnout?” She asked.

“Angry.”

“That is your usual state, in my experience. I meant how are you faring?”

He huffed and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I certainly don’t need any charity baskets, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t, but she was glad to hear it. He didn’t ask how she was doing, of course. Shouting from a street over carried to the little back way they were on, and Sandor stepped a little closer. “I mean it. You should go. I’ll walk you back to where it’s safe.”

“That’s not necessary, I have – ”

He reached out and placed a hand on her arm, a gesture that was both surprising and gentle. “I know the mood of these folk better than you.”

She tipped her head back to look up at him, but didn’t budge. “You compassion is as appreciated as it is unexpected, Mr. Clegane.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “It’s no compassion, it’s a Milton virtue called common sense.”

“Yes, because we don’t have that in London.” Arya or Effie could run circles around this man, she thought. But she wasn’t Arya or Effie, and her wit sounded feeble against his certainty. His hand on her arm was heavy, determined.

“I have someone with me to look after me.” She told him. “She’s just gone up for a moment, but she’ll be back. I’ll be all right.”

“Well, she shouldn’t leave you alone.”

“Anyone passing by might misunderstand and think you were concerned, Mr. Clegane.”

“I – ” He was going to say something but thought better of it. "It’s nobody’s business, and anyone with a brain would know that harming a mill owner is only going to make things in this shit town worse.”

“I’m touched.” She said drily. She didn’t believe him for a moment, but it didn’t matter. Acts of kindness toward him always ended with him snapping at her. She laid a hand on his chest and put a little weight into it, not quite pushing him but making a tacit request for space. “But as I said, I’ll be all right.”

Oddly, he didn’t move, and his voice dropped so low that only the two of them could have heard . “You have too much confidence in yourself.”

“And you have too little.” She answered, pretending his voice and proximity weren’t affecting her. “I’m stronger than I look. I hope you’ll learn that in time.”

A lock of hair was brushing against her cheek. Sandor was staring at her intently. If it had been Petyr, or Harry, or William Slickson, or any other man in the world staring at her like that she would expect them to reach up and brush it behind her ear. Her skin tingled at the thought of it, but Sandor didn’t reach up, didn’t touch her at all except for the hand still on her arm.

“We’ll see.” He said, still in the same low growl.

Someone coughed loudly to the left and they both jumped, springing apart like the jaws of a trap.

Effie was standing not three feet away, looking between them with a decidedly odd and _very_ interested look on her face.

“Effie.” Sansa said breathlessly. Why was she out of breath, she wondered. And why was her face flushed?

Effie’s gray eyes narrowed to slits as she stared at Sandor. “You.” She said at last. “Piss off, Sandor.”

To Sansa’s amazement, he actually backed off, but one finger came up accusingly. “You can’t be bringing her to this neighborhood. It’s not safe.” He said.

“Why don’t you try something novel and have a little faith in people, you fat lug.” Effie flapped her hands at him as if she were swatting a pesky fly.

“Effie!” Sansa gasped as Sandor receded. “That wasn’t very nice. That’s Sandor Clegane.”

Effie was looking at her in a singularly peculiar way. “I think we ought to get you back home, Miss.”

“Yes, I…” Sansa stared after Sandor for a moment. _Wait._ “You knew him.”

“Well, he, ah, is hard to miss. Everybody knows him.”

“But he knew you.”

“Well everybody knows everybody around these parts.” Effie said quickly. “Unions and all that. Anyway, what were you doing with him?”

“Nothing, I…he was worried for my safety.” By the time she looked over Effie had schooled her features into something respectable, but there was a tension in Effie’s arm that had not been there before.

Arm in arm, the pair traveled back home. They did not speak as much as they had on the way out.

_I am the dumbest man in the universe._ Sandor watched the light in from the window dim and then finally die off and leave him in darkness.

_What were you going to do, kiss her? In the middle of the street? And never work again?_ He hadn’t been expecting to see her, that was all. Or so he told himself. He hadn’t expected her to come parading into the Princeton district trumpeting about morals. He certainly hadn’t expected her to have a civil word for him, given…well, everything.

He was still sitting in the dark when Effie came in, set her things down, and bustled over to the fireplace to start the fire he was still too afraid to light himself. 

“Sandor.” She said to the feeble flames as the licked at the paper she used as kindling.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Dear brother.”

“Fuck off.”

Effie swiveled on her haunches and eyed him carefully from across their small room. “You’d best be careful.”

“I know.”

“She’s a very nice person.”

“Hmmm.” He didn’t have anything to say to that except _I sure fucking hope so._


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa made no more trips to the Princeton district. She thought of it, even mentioned it in passing to Effie, but Effie only smiled and put her off. Some of the frankness Sansa had come to expect from her maid had evaporated, as if she was putting a distance between them. After Sansa brought it up for the third time and was refused, she stopped asking and began to wonder if Arya would go with her.

It was, Sansa reasoned with herself, the right thing to do. Her parents had raised her to help people, not judge them, to be responsible and commit to a community. That was her justification, that was why her mind strayed over and over to her last visit.

Not Sandor Clegane.

Although he did live in the Princeton district. And if she happened to be in the area, she might happen to run into him again. She wanted to relieve the burden of guilt sitting on her chest due to the strike, but she also wanted to go back to that frozen moment when they’d been alone and he’d looked at her like he…

Well.

Sansa knew men. She’d been an innocent when Petyr took her to London, but she’d learned quickly. She knew what men wanted and what they liked, what they thought of women and what they expected from them. Beyond the elegant compliments and the restrained conversation of polite society, she knew what it meant to be wanted. As strange as it seemed, as often as she tried to explain it away, she couldn’t deny that Sandor Clegane had looked at her that day with nothing short of _want._

And that that was why she wanted to go to the Princeton district. Because she _wanted_ too.

It was new. It was troubling.

Odds were Effie knew about it, too, and that was why she’d gone distant. She didn’t approve. Sansa filed that information away and promised herself she’d ask Effie about it later.

Meanwhile, the third week of the strike dragged to a grim close. Books couldn’t keep her attention anymore, but the newspapers did. MILL WORKERS TURN TO MURDER was the top headline the week of the Hamper’s party. In fact there had been only one mill worker killed in a brawl, but the idea of a desperate workforce gone mad with hunger appealed to both sensational journalists and the mill owners trying to paint themselves as longsuffering saints.

 _This has to end,_ was the endless refrain in Sansa’s mind _._ But there was no end in sight yet. Both Arya and Effie were reporting that the unions were doubling down on dissension, paying ominous visits to those that had fallen to grumbling. No matter how desperate, the workers would hang on.

And on the other side of town, the Hampers were having their annual party in their elegant house stuffed with well-dressed guests, mediocre food, and bad music. Sansa alit from her hired carriage and paused to smooth the silk skirt of the gown Effie had picked out for her. It felt cruel to be at an event at a time like this.

 _One foot in front of the other._ She had good practice from her years with Petyr of hiding unpleasant emotions when they bubbled up. She floated through the rooms nodding and smiling, aware that nobody there particularly liked her or approved of her. She was a woman doing a man’s job, working with men, acting like one of them. She shouldn’t have been surprised when those same men and their wives snubbed her.

Sansa had never been a wallflower before, but she certainly was one now. She stood alone in a corner, wishing the time away while the music played and others, real Milton people, greeted each other. Sansa caught the eye of Mrs. Marlborough, who was studying her gown with an expression of disgust.

Sansa could almost hear the old Battle-Ax thinking. _Not even wearing black. Not even in half mourning, and her father hardly cold in his grave. Shameful._

Sansa hadn’t had any black party gowns in her wardrobe, and even if she owned an appropriate black frock, she had no intention of ever playing at mourning Petyr. He’d been her _god_ father, everyone seemed to forget, not her real father. So when Effie had picked a deep green gown with delicate golden flowers embroidered onto the bodice and down the middle of the skirt, Sansa hadn’t protested a bit.

Deep down she knew that wearing black wouldn’t have mattered much. She was a new woman in town, and unmarried, and probably considered loose already. She would never have been liked by the other society women of Milton.

She was grateful when dinner was announced and they all went in. Seated at the end of the table, beside Mrs. Hamper and across from Slickson, she expected to be able to coast through the evening without being asked any difficult questions. Nobody wanted her opinions, after all.

 _Gods, I sound like Sandor Clegane. Bitter and self-conscious and overly opinionated._ It was almost enough to make her smile. All alone and quiet in a room of her peers, but if she’d been with him, they’d have probably already started fighting over who was smarter and kinder.

She caught herself and pushed the burly foreman out of her mind, forced herself to pay attention to the dinner conversation.

“I’ve half a mind to pack up and move my industry elsewhere.” Slickson was proclaiming, waving his fork about.

“Aye, that’s what I’d like to do.” Hamper agreed. “Pack up and leave.”

The ladies all nodded like flowers in a gentle breeze.

“Then there’d be no work for them at all.” Slickson laughed.

Hamper fixed his friend with a stern look down the long table. “There is work. They choose not to do it.”

“What do you think, Mr. Marlborough?” Mrs. Hamper said sweetly, trying to ease the tension.   
  
“It’s logical to try, if we cannot make enough of a profit here.” Marlborough glanced around at his neighbors. “These workers have been privileged to be in our employ all this time. They might learn from their loss.”

“And what do you think, Miss Stark?” Mrs. Hamper turned to Sansa on her left. “Surely you don’t condone the strikers?”

Caught off guard, Sansa nearly dropped her fork. “Oh. Well…no. I mean, yes. It is surely good for everyone to try to see both sides of a question.”

"Oh?" Mrs. Marlborough leaned forward to fix Sansa with a steely gaze. “Is that why you were seen taking a basket to the Princeton district the other afternoon?”

Sansa’s mouth opened and she cast her eyes around the table looking for an out. Everyone was looking at her, either directly or sideways, but not one person at the long dining table seemed surprised.

The weight of judgment hit her all at once. _They knew,_ she realized. _I really never stood a chance here, because everyone knew and decided what they thought about it, even before I arrived._

And worse, _if someone saw me in the Princeton district, they might have seen me with –_

“I was taking a basket.” She clarified quickly. “For charity. The people in the slums have been made a little wild by circumstances, but that surely that should not diminish our kindness toward others.”

“It is not kindness.” Marlborough puffed. “To betray your class.”

“The basket I gave was for a man whose six children are starving.” Sansa looked at the other women at the table, hoping for support. 

“Well then he knows what to do.” Hamper said. “Go back to work.” There were murmurs of agreement up and down the long table.

Sansa stared at the crystal chandelier swaying gently above the china on the table, trying to keep from snapping. 

Slickson leaned forward, drawing her attention. “You do the man, and his brood, more harm than good with your basket. The more you assist the strikers, the more you prolong the strike. That is not kindness.” His tone was gentler than the others, but his eyes were as cold.

“Hear, hear.” Marlborough grumbled as the other nodded agreement. A satisfied murmur ran down the table as the guests picked up their forks once again.

“But surely to give a dying baby food,” Sansa snapped at him, silencing the murmurs, “Is not a question of workers and mills, but of basic sense. And yes, kindness.”

Slickson leaned back in his chair this time. A dark anger flashed across his face, and his mouth opened with a rejoinder until Mrs. Hamper cut in. “Shall we go through, ladies?” Her hand came down on Sansa’s in what looked like a friendly pat but was actually a vise grip.

Sansa broke eye contact with Slickson and let herself be led away, fuming. Half of her wanted to stay with the gentlemen and yell at them while they smoked their cigars. But her mother wouldn’t have done it that way. Arya had a brash courage that Sansa longed to emulate, but their mother had always combined that bombast with wisdom and tact that Sansa could only try to imitate. Quietly, she settled into a corner in the drawing room with the ladies and was ignored there until enough time passed that she could politely leave. Free at last, she slipped out into the night and threw herself into the waiting carriage.

“Miss Stark!” Slickson followed her out of the house, slipped on the stairs and came to a halt with his hand on her carriage.

“Good night, Mr. Slickson.” She settled herself back in with her newspaper and stared straight ahead.

“Come now, Sansa.” He reached in and laid a hand on one of her balled up fists. He was all generous again, the boyishly sweet owner who meant well. She wondered if he used that trick on his workers when they were upset. Perhaps only the female ones. “You’re a soul of kindness, and it does you credit. But you must see how your actions are being seen by your peers.”

“I am not aware of us being on first name terms, Mr. Slickson.” She said icily. 

“Listen, lass.” He leaned into the carriage to stare up at her eyes. “You’ve a weak understanding of our industry. You must accept that you’ll never be respected as an owner until you start to learn from the rest of us.”

 _Fall in line and do as I’m told, like all the other women in there?_ “I can and will run my mill as I see fit without any input from you, Mr. Slickson.”

“Then you’ll run it into the ground.” He snapped back, releasing her hand. “And when you do, I’ll be waiting for you.”

She couldn’t tell if that was intended to be a threat or a romantic prospect. Perhaps both. She tapped the driver to drive on. “Good night, Mr. Slickson.”

“Good night, Sansa.”

_I’m never going to another party as long as I live._

She came in the front door like a hurricane, slamming the door behind her, then kicking herself because Effie was sleeping on the sofa waiting for her to come home.

“Sorry.” She whispered as Effie’s tousled curls popped up from the pillow.

Effie waved her off. “I made Bran go to bed. Only stayed late because I don’t think you can get out of that dress by yourself.”

“I can’t.” All her rage was gone and replaced with contrition as Effie picked up her lamp and led the way upstairs. “Thank you, Effie.”

“I take it wealth can’t buy a good party?”

Sansa smiled at her judgmental tone in spite of herself. “It certainly can’t buy me approval from anyone.” She reached up and pulled the comb out of her hair as she followed Effie into her bedroom. Placing it gently on the vanity, she reached up to remove her hairpins. “I’ll never be one of them and sometimes it feels like I’ll never have the worker’s love, either.”

“Nobody owes you love.” Effie yawned as if she dispensed such wisdom every day. 

“Well, loyalty, then. Trust.” Sansa stood still as Effie came around to undo her gown in the low light of the lamp.

“Aye, trust can be managed. Give it time, and loyalty will follow.”

Sansa looked down at her hands. “You like me, don’t you?”

“Aye. Some.”

“Why?”

Effie’s fingers stuttered over the laces of Sansa’s corset. “Well..." 

"I won't be mad, whatever you say."

“Here’s the thing, Miss.” Effie attacked the laces with new ferocity. “I like you, because I’ve no reason not to. But our whole relationship is built around work, around product. I work for you. If you tried to give me charity, I’d hate you. It’s offensive. I produce my own worth.”

And that, too, brought Sandor Clegane to mind. _So much pride._

“The workers will never love you for throwing coins and baskets at them. They have their dignity. Work, that’s how you build relationships with your people. Not only with charity. Give them back their jobs, and they'll love you for it.”

Sansa digested that in silence. She was back again at where she’d been in the carriage before the party started. _This has to end._

“I want to.”

Effie shrugged as she hung Sansa’s dress. “Then do. Me, I’m going home.”

“Effie?”

Effie paused in the doorway and looked back at her.

“What would you do in my position? This strike isn’t helping me or my workers at this point. But I can’t do what they want. But also, I can’t keep on with the other owners. I want…” _I want to pay them well. I want to show up Slickson. I want Sandor’s approval. I want to be liked._

Effie’s canny smile was clear even in the flickering light. “Oh, I don’t think you or I like being told what to do. And neither does that odd girl who hangs around, the one I’m not supposed to have seen? I expect she'd advise you the same as I am.” Effie gave her a knowing look. “I think you’ll find your own way, Miss Stark. Folk get told a lot they’ve only so many options, but I suspect if you believed that you’d’ve never made it here.”

She took the light with her and left Sansa alone. In her soft nightgown and big fluffy bed, Sansa pulled the covers up to her chin.

_I can’t stand with the owners._

_I can’t help the workers they way they want right away._

If there was a third way, she couldn’t see it. She fell asleep trying to.

When she woke, she knew what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for pretty dresses, but Margaret's party dress from the miniseries has always been lackluster, so I swapped it with one I like better, which also happens to be from a show called North and South (no relation). You can see both dresses if you do an image search for 'north and south green dress'.


	10. Chapter 10

“I’m going to break the strike.” Sansa announced, gripping the back of a kitchen chair.

She had expected the skepticism she found in Bran’s face as he steepled his fingers. She did not expect the exaggerated eye roll from Arya as she toasted bread for breakfast.

“No.” Arya told her, not questioning, not even stating, but ordering. “You’re not.”

“Hear me out.”

“People need to eat, Sansa. You’re better than this. It’s the march of society, y’know. Progress. Your shit factory will be illegal in a few years time.”

“I’m trying!” Sansa cut her off. “And I agree with you, _Prince Albert_ , so hush and let me finish.”

Arya lapsed into skeptical silence, tossing a piece of toast at Bran to butter.

“The strike isn’t doing any good for anybody. The mill owners will hold out until the workers give in because they can. That’ll leave everyone worse off, because we haven’t been filling the orders we’ve been getting, and the worker’s resources will be exhausted. Some of the ringleaders won’t get work again. All in all, this is a bad situation that won’t get better.”

“So?”

“So.” Sansa took a deep breath. “The workers are tired now and aware that they won’t get results by continuing. It may be enough for them to consider renegotiating. I’m going to make them my old offer again; eighteen a week, with guaranteed raises in the future when the business starts turning a tidy profit and can afford it. I think they’ll take it because it’s the best they can get. Plus if we’re the only mill running in Milton we’ll have a one up on our competitors.”

The large kitchen wasn’t silent for long.

“That’s not a new idea.” Arya said. “That’s your old idea three weeks late.”

Sansa pulled out her chair and sat down hard. “It’s the best I’ve got, and it’s better than any other mill owner will give. And I really think they might listen this time. It’s the most beneficial option for all parties.”

“They may not want it.” Bran pointed it. “They didn’t last time.”

“They never heard it.” Sansa reminded him. “They won’t believe promises of mythical future raises coming from me. I need the backing of someone they trust, and Sandor Clegane wouldn’t make the offer for me last time.”

“And you think he’s changed his mind?”

“Not likely.” Arya snorted.

“I…” Sansa fiddled with the spoon in the jam jar in front of her. “I think he might be more amenable this time.” If I ask him in person. She didn’t know what had changed, but she felt that something had. He’d seen her in the Princeton district, and things had been different then. He'd been different. 

Bran philosophically ate his toast as he pondered on that.

Arya’s eyes had gone narrow as she watched her sister across the table. “Why’d you think he’ll help you now?”

“No reason.” Sansa shrugged.

“Did Effie say something to you?”

“About what?”

“You need a plan in case he says no.” Bran decided out loud. “I’m sorry Sansa, but I just don’t see him being helpful. He used to be a union man, and deep inside he’s probably still one of them.”

“Oh, I know he is.” Sansa agreed. “Stubborn and pushy and proud and…” she let herself trail off before she said handsome. “Anyway, I’m going to send him a note and he’d come around and we can walk about the mill and I’ll persuade him.” The prospect of seeing him sent an unexpected thrill through her right down to her toes.

Arya was watching her suspiciously.

Sansa avoided her eyes. “I’ve thought about what I might say to win him over. I really think I can this time.” Yes, he was grumpy most of the time, and always at her, but he hadn't been that last time. When by rights he should have been angry at her, he hadn’t been, and the thread of energy that ran from her to him had been drawn tighter than ever before.

Sansa was no little girl anymore. She wasn’t going to go out in back and pick the petals off a flower and wonder. But all the same, it had seemed rather like he meant to…

She pushed the memory away for the umpteenth time. There was a warmth inside her at the thought of it, an excitement that she’d thought she’d lost in London. But she couldn’t dwell on that, not now.

“Can you find out where he lives?” She asked Arya.

Arya snorted into her tea in response.

“Good. Get this to him.” Sansa handed the note to Arya. “If I’m going to break the strike, I’ll need his help to do it. He’ll know that what I have in mind is best for everyone.” She knew as she said it that she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else in the room. _He's a reasonable man, he'll come around._ But when Arya returned that evening, she handed Sansa a note back with a little shake of her head.

Sansa stared down at the bold handwriting she knew so well from her ledgers, then looked up at Arya. “Is this it?” His response was barely three words, and the bald word _no_ stood out on the page, scrawled there with visible ferocity.

Arya shrugged. “I tried to convince him.”

“You talked to him?”

“Wore my hat low and told him I was the errand boy, ordered not to return with anything but a positive answer.”

“And?”

“He told me to fuck off.”

“And?”

Arya sighed. “And I told him off, and then he told me off, and then I told him off some more, and then he said, ‘how’d you manage to break into my house anyway?’ and I said –”

“Wha - why did you break into his house?” 

“I had to deliver a letter.” Arya answered as if it were obvious. “And I wanted know if his furniture is normal or giant sized.”

“Which is it?” Bran asked. 

“The chairs are giant sized but the rest is normal. I think his feet must hang off the bed when he sleeps.”

“Stop.” Sansa held up a hand. “I’m very curious, but we have more important things at hand.”

“He won’t work with you.” Arya said, turning back to her. “I told him word on the street was that Miss Stark wanted to renegotiate with the workers. And he said a flat-out no. He’s not coming to see you.”

Sansa read the note in her hands once more. “Then I’ll go to him.”

_What. The ever loving fuck._

For the last few days Sandor’s hard and fast rule had been _don’t think about Sansa Stark. Don’t talk about Sansa Stark. Don't think about Sansa Stark._ He had probably only a little time before the strikers gave in and it was all back to work, and he needed to get his head on straight in that time, or else when he started having to be around her all the time again…

He had to get his head on straight.

So when he saw a familiar tall, lithe figure making her way down his street in his own neighborhood, he had only one reaction.

_Why._

Her red hair was covered by a bonnet, and she wasn’t wearing her usual fancy type clothing, but it was definitely her; the way she walked, the way her head turned to acknowledge anyone who passed her with a nod and a smile. She dropped coins into a beggar’s hat out of that damned bag she carried everywhere. Yes, it was her.

He hurried his step to come up beside her. She must have heard him coming up behind her, because she turned as he approached and caught him in her gaze.

“What are you doing here?” 

“Were you hoping to frighten me again?”

“I told you this neighborhood isn’t safe for you.”

“I think I shall be quite safe with you, Mr. Clegane. To answer your question, I was coming to see you. I have a business proposition for you.”

“I told you I’m not interested.”

“You haven’t heard it.”

“It’s about the strike, isn’t it?” He said it as if he knew already, because he did. 

“Yes. I want to break it. Now.”

“Then I’m definitely not –” _Wait._ Sandor looked up and down the narrow street. “Where were you going?”

“To your house, just round corner.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“I have my sources, Mr. Clegane. It seems everyone in Milton does. Having spies around seems nearly a necessity of life in this town. But if you don’t mind I’d rather speak about business matters in private.”

“In my house?” Sandor tried to remember if Effie was at work today. All the days blurred together now that he wasn't at work.

“Yes, in your house, as you would not come to mine.”

_No_ , said the common sense part of Sandor’s brain, which always sounded exactly like Effie. _Do not let her see where you live, and do not let yourself be alone with her._

Then again. He’d need to desensitize himself. Being around her was part of his job, and as long as he didn’t touch her, he would surely be fine. It was when he got too close that his judgment started to slide.

“I’ll say no to you, no matter what the business is.”

“You’ll at least do me the courtesy of hearing me out first.” She said firmly. “And if you say no I shall simply wait on your doorstep until you let me in.”

Well he couldn’t very well have that. Sandor leaned his head back and heaved a giant sigh at the sky. “Fine.”

He half expected her to turn up her nose at his tiny rented rooms, at his stupidly oversized chairs and his comically small table. He almost didn’t want to look at her because he didn’t want to see the disgust and derision on her face.

But he did, because he had to, because god damn it if she wasn’t the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

And she didn’t look disgusted. She smiled faintly, as if at a private joke, as she rested a hand on top of his big kitchen chair.

Sandor stood near the cold embers of the fireplace, crossed his arms and glared at her across the small room. “So?”

“You have a lovely way of arranging things.” She was taking her sweet time, looking around at the small kitchen and the jars Effie kept neatly stored in the open cupboard. 

_Look at me,_ he wanted to snap, but he wasn’t sure why. He always wanted her to look at him. Then she did and he remembered why; because she looked at him straightforwardly, honestly, without any trace of fear or dread in her eyes. He could have basked in that look forever.

“What is it you want? Let’s hear it, so I can tell you no and send you on your way. I’m sure you have some more parties to be attending.” He checked himself, not sure if he was supposed to know about that. Effie had told him about the party, but was it gossip on the street yet?

_Need to watch my damn mouth._

She raised an eyebrow, unruffled. “I want a great many things, Mr. Clegane. But if I’m to achieve any of them I need you in your place. As foreman. You never made the offer I asked you to last time, and see the result. People are in hardship all over town.”

“Not in your neighborhood.” He couldn’t resist the barb.

She didn’t rise to it. “But in yours, certainly. We can end that and show up the other mill owners. I’m repeating my offer from before. Eighteen now, and a promise that in a year’s time I’ll have raised wages again. It will help that we will start turning a nice profit while the other mill owners still have their heads in the sand. It may even tempt them to start negotiating with unions in the future.”

“So you say.”

She nudged a chair over to where he was standing in front of the tiny fireplace. “May I?” She chirped pleasantly, seating herself. 

Much as he didn’t want it to be, this was happening. So he reluctantly sat himself down on his own chair, staring at the cold ashes in the grate.

“Cotton has become more and more expensive in recent years." She began. "Supply flow is interrupted because of the American conflict, and with the way things are going over there now it isn’t likely that will change soon. Until the Americans figure out their political situation, we have to buy from other markets. That costs more.”

“I know the market situation.” Sandor interrupted her. “You think workers don’t have newspapers?”

“I’m making a case. The more information I throw at you the harder it will be for you to demolish me.” She told him. There was a forced sweetness behind her voice. 

He grumbled but couldn’t deny her point. _Trying hard, is she?_ He wondered how long until that syrupy facade turned brittle and cracked. Amusing as that might be, giving into her might be wise and he knew it. Hadn’t he wasted time regretting his part in the strike? She was giving him a chance to fix it, and he knew if Effie was here she’d smack him upside the head and tell him to take that chance.

And it wouldn’t hurt to have the Little Bird pleased with him.

“I’ve reduced overhead as much as I can. I won’t deny there was a great deal of waste in the company. Not on your level, but on mine. I’ve cut my own salary and done as much as I can. Please understand that I agree with you that the workers ought to be paid a decent wage. And I’m trying. But it will take time for the measures I’ve made to start to have an effect, especially given the market right now.”

He was almost tuning out her words in favor of listening to her voice. She had a pretty voice, sweet to the ear. He wondered if she was one of those women who liked to sing and play piano. She’d have a fine singing voice.

Her hand on his startled him out of his reverie.

She was leaning forward in her chair, drawn up very close to his. Her small hand was cold against his skin, but he didn’t mind it. She’d touched him before on his arm or his chest, but never so intentionally. When he met her eyes, they were bright and deliberate.

“Do I have your support?”

He was still as a statue. “I won’t talk them out of it for your sake.” _Ah ye_ _s, stick to your principles. Like a fucking idiot._

She didn’t pull back, and instead let her fingers slip between his. “It would be to everyone’s benefit.” 

He was wavering, distracted between her hand and wondering where it was going to go next, and knowing that she was probably right and this was the best deal any workers would get for ten years at least.

_I don’t want to._

But why the hell not, he had to wonder.

As if she sensed him wavering, she moved in for the kill. One hand locked in his, the other moved up to rest on his arm, and she was saying something he wasn’t listening to because why in the hell was she still touching him? How in the hell was he supposed to be able to think straight when she was sitting there almost caressing him?

_Oh._

_Oh of course. She doesn't want me thinking straight, now does she? She's doing all this on purpose._

His stomach lurched. He had been enjoying her touch, but now he pushed her hands away. Standing up abruptly, he moved back toward the kitchen table, putting some space between them.

“And it would profit you most of all, yes?”

She let her frustration show on her face for only a moment, but it was enough for him. Aye, she’d come here to beg and cajole and lie. Of course she had. She was stressed and annoyed under all the honeyed sweetness, but she couldn’t drop it because she needed him.

Well, he didn’t play games in that way. “You came here to fuck me into doing what you like.” He snapped.

She gasped audibly. “What?”

They stared at each other in perfectly matched, horrified silence.

“Excuse me?” She managed.

“Piss off.” He told her. “That won’t work on me.” Well, it almost had, and even now there was a part of his brain that was telling him he should certainly do the deed and deal with the fallout later. But no. One quick fuck to screw over the rest of the working class would not be worth it. Probably. 

“Get out.”

Sansa had her hands balled at her sides and was shaking slightly, radiating anger. “How dare you. I came here to offer you a chance—”

“I know what you were doing.” He cut her off with a single raised hand. “Aye, you’re very pretty but I’m not Slickson or Baelish or whoever else you’ve used. Us working class idiots have a wee thing called pride.”

“Idiot is correct.” She fired back, gathering her shawl and her bonnet in a whirlwind of indignant rage. “I came here with a business proposition and you have the audacity to accuse me of—you are vile!” She had a finger practically under his nose.

And again, despite his better judgment, he was leaning into her, relishing her anger, almost begging for it because—

Because?

_Because I’m an idiot. A desperate, foolish man who doesn’t stand a chance with her, who’d do anything to make her angry just so her attention is on me and no one else._

Well, he’d achieved that. She was so angry that the pins she was stabbing into her bonnet went in crooked and stuck out at odd angles.

“Good day, Mr. Clegane.” She fumed. “Be assured, you won’t hear from me again.”

"You're firing me because I won't do...that?"

She spun at the door, still furious. "I would never come here to offer you that. And I would never fire you over refusing it. I came here to ask you to do your job, literally just your job. When you're ready to do it, you may send me a note. Until then I have no interest in seeing or hearing from you, you overgrown cretin!"

She was enraged, but she wasn't lying. Sandor felt his stomach drop as he realized it. There was nothing he hated more than admitting that he was wrong, but by God he had to now.

“Wait.” He held out a hand, as if that would placate her. 

“No, I won’t. I won’t be insulted in this way.” 

"Little Bird."

She was gone.

Sandor took one step after her, then made himself stop. Sinking into a chair, he put his head in his hands and shut his eyes.

_Sandor you fucking idiot._

Hot tears of rage blinded Sansa on the way home, and she kept her head lowered so her bonnet covered her face. To come all this way, to do all this work to spite the other mill owners and to still be treated like a tramp by her own foreman! It was too much to fathom. She was halfway home before she realized she hadn’t brought a handkerchief and desperately needed one. Dabbing at her eyes with her gloves did no good. She was so fixated on keeping her head down she nearly slammed into another pedestrian, a man who had planted himself directly in her way.

“Oh!”

“Handkerchief, miss?” The man they called Bronn produced one with a flourish and a sleek grin.

Sansa stepped back. “I…” The proffered cloth looked clean enough, and Bronn was one of her workers, wasn’t he? She took him up on his offer with a watery smile. “Thank you.”

“Clegane’s a monster.” Bronn offered her his arm. He had a devilish grin, but there was no malice in his eye as he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his own elbow. "Mustn't mind what he says." 

“I really must be going.” She almost stepped back, but Bronn's hand on her was not at all controlling. 

“Of course, Miss. And I’ll walk you home. Tisn’t safe here, is it? Not for a pretty lady like you.”

The compliment stung, somehow, though that wasn’t his fault.

“You’ll never get that lout to work with you.” Bronn advised.

Sansa looked over at him sharply. “Beg pardon?”

He waved a hand. “Everyone knows you need his help for to get the mills going again. But he’s too sodding awful. Doesn’t like being told what to do. He’s a powerful man, in how own way. And I ought to know! I’ve known him since we were boys on the street. And now here he is, telling me what to do and lording it over me.”

Sansa dabbed surreptitiously at her nose. “I’d rather not discuss it, Mr…”

“Blackwater.” Bronn supplied. “See, he’s not like us. Folk like us don’t ever get the credit we’re owed, nor the respect. But we can turn a pretty profit and smile knowing they’re all fuming on the inside, can’t we?” Bronn smirked.

“Folk like us?”

“I’m a worker. You’re a woman. The Master’s’ll never see us as their equal.”

“Masters?”

“Aye, you with your Slickson and his lot, and me with Clegane.”

Sansa felt as if she had been dropped int the middle of a conversation that had been arranged for her well in advance, on a topic she wasn’t prepared for. “Please explain yourself, Mr. Blackwater.”

“Why, to make it simple, I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?”

“Aye. I’m a working man. I know the mill. I know the workers. I’m union. I can do what that oaf won’t. I can get your mill running again.”

“And betray Clegane?” _Who cares about him now?_ She asked herself. _He's been terrible._

“The job must be done, yes?” Bronn reached over and readjusted one of her hatpins so it was no longer poking her in the neck. His touch was casual, as if he were merely adjusting a bit of ornery machinery. “And you need a man to do it. I think we can do business together.”

“How did you know I was trying to end the strike?”

“I’m a man of the world. I hear things. And it’s not exactly hard to guess, is it?”

He was canny, she had to admit that. Bronn Blackwater had a clever way about him. And he was nicer than Sandor Clegane. There was a part – it was now very very far down inside her – that didn’t want to betray her foreman. But his filthy accusations still stung in her ears. She hardened her heart.

“You can convince the workers to come back? For a raise to eighteen?”

“Oh, that’s a pretty offer indeed, Miss. Better than they’ll be expecting.”

“And you can keep it quiet? So the other owners don’t learn of it until it’s been done?”

“Discretion is my middle name.” Bronn winked as he drew up outside the gates of Mockingbird Mills.

Sansa took a deep breath and stuck out her hand. “Then we have an agreement, then, Mr. Blackwater.”

Bronn cackled as his clapped his rough hand in her delicate one. “I knew you were a woman of sense.”

“I look forward to working with you, sir.”

“And I you.” He bent over her hand in a sarcastic imitation of gallantry before releasing her and stepping away. “I’ll get you your mill running again, Miss. You can count on me.”

She watched him lope away jauntily, smiling even as a queasy feeling took hold of her stomach.

Can I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not posting for the last few weeks. I could blame it on lockdown ending, but the truth is I've just been in a funk. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for the lovely kudos and comments! Y'all make my day. :)


	11. Chapter 11

Arya liked high places, a leftover from a childhood as the short one among Sansa and her brothers. But as she’d learned from her years of surviving on her own, there were advantages to being small. She could crouch in corners and duck into hidey holes that others wouldn’t even notice, much less attempt to enter. Even better, there were high places she could climb onto and dark shadows for disappearing. 

Tonight her spot was a small corner of the train station, one that allowed her to see the dark stairs that led inside and the grand clock that announced it was the wee hours of the morning. With her legs tucked up under her, Arya munched on a cold sandwich as she watched a few stragglers enter and exit the deserted station. There was one man, though, who neither entered nor left, and it was on him that her attention was fixed: Bronn Blackwater, Sansa’s shady new business partner.

Bronn was supposed to be working with the employees of Mockingbird Mills, bringing them back into the fold. Instead he had spent the last fifteen minutes skulking around the train station while Arya watched him pace.

The clock read 1:45 when Bronn abandoned the upstairs platform and headed away from the station, not taking the sidewalk but following the tracks themselves. Intrigued, Arya stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her face and followed him on light feet.

The night was black as pitch as soon as they left the light of the train station behind. Arya walked on the tracks as she followed the sound of Bronn’s feet crunching on gravel. When the crunching stopped, Arya stopped too, crouching in the dark and resting her hand on the track beneath her.

Vibrations. Moments later, a distant chugging sound. Lights came into sight, with Bronn’s waiting figure silhouetted against them as the train approached. Arya sat back on her haunches and watched as the engine inched along, gradually coming to a stop before them…a half a mile from the station.

Bronn was looking around furtively as he stepped up to it.

_Now why are you doing that, Blackwater? Got something you need to hide?_

Lots of somethings. No – lots of _somebodies_. People started emerging from the train, a dark huddled mass streaming from the cars. Their voices were low as they followed Bronn’s orders and gestures. Arya had to strain her ears to hear under the hissing and puffing of the engine.

Her stomach sank as her patience was rewarded. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there was a gentle lilt to their language, an accent that was immediately identifiable.

_Irish._

Arya pulled back from the lights of the train and the sight of Bronn shepherding his charges. Within moments she had melted back into the darkness and onto the streets beyond.

_Sansa has to be told._

“Scabs.” Arya said flatly. “He’s bringing in workers from Ireland to break the strikers.”

Sansa was clutching onto the mantelpiece, aware that if she let go she might just fall over. The tick-tick of the clock behind her sounded like a disapproving tsk-tsk that she couldn’t drown out. Her siblings were looking to her to take care of them, and yet everything she did just landed them in a worse mess.

It was altogether too much to be happening before three in the morning, but here it was. It was happening, and now.

“I didn’t tell him to do that.” She said, knowing they already knew that. 

“That’s what’s worse.” Arya countered, “We know you didn’t, because you only just made him your foreman, but he had to have been planning this for a minute. Irish workers don’t materialize by themselves all in a night.”

“Where would he get the money to transport them?” Bran broke in. 

“You can get anything on credit, if you give the right name.”

“And whose name did he give?” Arya asked. “He might’ve been playing you. He might be working for another one of the owners. A trainload of Irish ready to work is a valuable commodity right now. Did you give him money?”

“…A little.” Sansa admitted hesitantly. “To sweeten the pot, help convince our workers to come back. Not to transport new ones.” 

Bran was drumming his fingers on his wheelchair as he listened. “What about Clegane? Can’t we get him back to help fix this?”

“Isn’t he fired?” Arya said.

Sansa felt caught under their questioning eyes. “Well…I mean never formally dismissed him. But I think he knows – I don’t really have time to worry about him right now.”

“Damn right.” Arya muttered. 

From the millyard, a distant yet familiar clanking sounded. All three siblings swiveled as the creak of the gates opening reached their ears. Still in her dressing gown, Sansa crossed the room to the window and peered out into the darkness.

“Wagons.”

“It’s him.” Arya pressed her nose against the glass. “He’s bringing them in.”

Sansa was already halfway to the front door. “Stay here. I’ll handle him.” She didn’t even have stockings on has she hurried down the front steps and across the cobblestones. A chill radiated off the walls and floor of the millyard, making Sansa clutch her flimsy pink robe closer as she hurried through the dark to where Bronn was holding a lamp aloft and struggling with the mill doors.

There were people in the wagons she was hurrying past. None of them said a word to her, but she could feel their eyes on her back as she stepped up to her employee.

“Mr. Blackwater.”

“Miss Stark.” He whipped around, startled for a moment before he recovered and seamlessly dropped into one of his cheeky half-bows.

Sansa drew up before him, unamused. “What is happening here?” she demanded.

“Nothing to worry you.” He glanced over at the wagonload of people watching. “I’m keeping up my end of our bargain. A good foreman needs workers to direct, eh?”

“ _These_ are your workers?”

“No, miss. They’re yours.” He smiled as if he’d given her a present.

She fought the urge to take him by the ears and shake him until his pea-sized brain rattled. Instead, she forced herself to speak. “I wanted you to bring back my old workers.” She said. “Not hire new ones.”

“Oh, well that wasn’t clear, now – ” Bronn began.

Sansa cut him off. “It was very clear. I made it clear. The point of this partnership was to give the workers back their jobs, not put them out of employment permanently.”

There were mutters from the wagons. Sansa knew she was being loud, and clenched her fists, trying to clamp down on her anger.

Bronn, however, was nothing like Sandor. Instead of puffing up and snapping back, he stepped back and placed a hand on his chest as if wounded. “Oh, miss, but breaking the strike like this, now, will help every worker, not just the ones who work here. And those who want to work can…eventually.” He leaned back in a dropped his voice to a whisper. “The Irish are just a temporary measure. They’ll be sent back when we’re all finished with them.”

“And where are you getting the money for this?”

“We discussed that. The bonus money.”

“The bonus money was to pay the workers a sum up front so they have something to live on until next paycheck!” Sansa was almost shrieking now. Bronn’s head looked like a bowling pin, and she longed to throw something at it.

Sandor was the worst, but he never would have done this.

“Well,” Bronn said, sounding almost serious. “I see you’re upset. But there’s not much can be done for it tonight. The Irish are here. They need a place to stay. The mill’s the only safe place for them. This can’t get out.”

Sansa could feel the ground shifting under her. _Sandor wouldn’t have done this to me._

“Put them inside.” She heard herself say. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

A plan, a plan, a plan. Sansa needed a plan.

Bronn was supposed to be her way of fixing things, but instead he’d only made them worse. She still had the strike, and an uncooperative foreman, but now she had two dozen Irish to feed and house on top of it, and a sycophantic hypocritical Bronn to manage.

Two days. Two days she’d been working with Bronn Blackwater, and he had promised her fast results. He’d never promised they’d be the results she wanted.

She was already on her third cup of tea and completely exhausted by the time Effie breezed in to start her day.

“Tired already?”

“I didn’t sleep much last night.” Sansa raised her head from her arms to look up at Effie. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Effie sat down. “Is this about the Irish in the mill?”

“How did you—?” Sansa gave up and put her head back down.

Effie pulled out a kitchen chair and sat across from her. “It’s bad, Miss. Everybody knows. He didn’t let them near the station, and he had one of the Irish drive the second wagon, but your mill is in our part of town, and people saw the wagons going in. I can’t say it’s a good move. In fact, it’s a terrible one, and I don’t think Clegane’ll stand for it.”

“I fired Clegane.” Sansa said. It was the first time she was saying it out loud, but it was true. “I wish I hadn’t.”

Effie’s face went through a variety of expressions before she settled on interested. “Um…you what?”

“He wouldn’t work with me, so I hired Bronn in his place.”

“That…is not all over town. That is new information. To everyone, I think.” Effie said carefully. She dithered for a moment before casting a careful eye at her mistress "He didn't...make advances at you, did he?”

"Of course not!" Sansa flushed. "No, it was nothing like that, although I wouldn't have been - anyway, it was that he was just impossible to work with. He said the meanest things to me!” She put her head back down on her arms. “But he never would have done this.”

She couldn’t see Effie’s face, now, but the silence between them was heavy with unsaid things.

“Are you judging me?”

“Aye, a bit.” Effie answered.

“Did I do wrong?”

“To fire Sandor, maybe no. But to hire Bronn Blackwater? That’s another matter.”

“Do you have any advice on who to hire once I sort out the Irish situation?”

“I’m no business partner, miss. I’m the maid. But from what I know, you’d best get rid of the Irish, and fast. People’s lives are on the line, and they’ve no reservations about coming out in force.”

Sansa heaved a deep sigh. “I know.”

“Sansa.” Effie reached over the table and took firm hold of her hand. “Listen to me. I know you’re new here, but that won’t save you. Word is already going around, and people are forming up. You need to find Bronn and make sure it’s known that they’re going back. Today if possible.”

“I don’t know how to find Bronn.”

“Then go to Clegane.”

“I can’t…not right now.”

Effie made an impatient huff. “Whatever passed between you two, it has to be laid aside. This Irish thing is what riots are made of. You’ve no idea how angry people will be. Really. This has to be addressed, and today. If you need me to mediate for you, I’ll do it. I’ll get Clegane and bring him back here and knock his head against the floor until this thing is handled.”

Sansa had to bite back a smile at that thought. “I’ll handle it without him.”

Effie’s face was deadly serious. “Sansa. This is serious.”

“I know. I’ll talk to Bronn about it. It will be handled by the end of the day.”

“It had better be.”

Hours bled together. The Irish were understandably terrified, and between managing their needs and trying to find Bronn, Sansa fell into her bed feeling exhausted despite accomplishing nothing. Arya was out most of the day and late into the night, and when she returned, she was empty handed. No one knew where Bronn was. No one knew what he was doing.

The next day was a Saturday, and it dawned in a deathly quiet. The mills had been silent for weeks now, but there was a new layer of silence over that. People weren’t in the streets, carriages weren’t clattering over the stones. Even newsboys seemed to have slept in.

Sansa was staring out the window as Effie came up the stairs, late for work. Their eyes met through the giant parlor window. Effie looked forbidding.

She entered the parlor with her shawl and hat still on. “This is bad.”

“Why is it so quiet?”

Effie drew up between Sansa and Bran and cast a nervous look over the millyard. “You need to leave the house. Now. The workers have had time to organize and confirm the news. They’re coming in a crowd.”

“This is my home. Where will I go?”

“Slickson’s. Hamper’s. Anywhere that will take you.”

“I can’t go to Slicksons.” Sansa didn’t dare look at Bran and his wheelchair. She wouldn’t have left even if she was the only person in the house, but she certainly couldn’t escape by pushing him in his wheelchair through the streets. “We aren’t going anywhere. This is the safest place for us.”

Effie grabbed her by the elbow. “There are over a hundred angry workers coming here. It’s only a matter of time.”

Sandor’s voice was echoing in Sansa’s head. _They’ll tear you limb from limb._ “They can’t get in through the gate.”

“They’ll scale it. They’ll break it down.” Effie snapped. “You need to get out and call on the soldiers to come and defend your property. If you’re lucky they might arrive before the house is set on fire.”

“You should go.” Bran said in his low voice. “Both of you. They won’t hurt me, not in my state.”

“Bran—” Effie said at the same time Sansa repeated, “I’m not leaving.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “I’m not calling the soldiers out to defend the house. They workers would never forgive me. And I’m staying here on my own property. Even if we could get away, that wouldn’t solve the problem. At worst, I’ll go out and try to calm the workers and explain the situation.”

“You will not.” Effie said hotly.

“You need to go.” Sansa told her. “If it’s so dangerous, then leave. Take the day off, go home, and stay in.” Effie was right, and she knew it, but she knew too that there was nothing she could do about it.

_If they come, they come. I’ll talk them down. I have to._ She couldn’t leave Bran, and Arya was still gone. Gods only knew where.

Effie crossed her arms and looked down her nose at Sansa. “No. If you’re staying, then so am I.”

Sandor’s fists were clenched. He knew he didn’t belong on this fine street with the clean sidewalks and flowerboxes sagging in the windows. But word on the street was that there were Irish at Mockingbird Mills, and Bronn Blackwater had something to do with it.

“Bastard.” Sandor stared up at the windows. He knew Bronn was in there, and he had to come out sometime.

Rapid footsteps on the sidewalk made him tense, but it wasn’t any coppers; it was a wee errand boy.

_Wait._ Sandor reached down and tweaked the lad’s cap as he drew up. “Aren’t you the little shit who broke into my house?”

The boy slapped his hand away, which more or less confirmed it. “Piss off. What the hell are you doing here? You need to be at Mockingbird Mills, now. Trouble’s brewing.”

“If that’s an order from Sansa Stark, you can tell her I’m staying put.” Sandor jabbed a finger at the house across the street. “This is Hamper’s house. Bronn’s hiding out in there, and when he comes out I’m going to give him the walloping of his life.”

“No time for that.” The lad’s accent smacked of the south, but there was no timidity there. As bossy as Sansa herself, the boy glared brazenly up at Sandor. “Mob’s brewing, and they’re headed for Mockingbird Mills. You need to get there and keep your boss safe.”

Sandor looked desperately from the boy at his side to the house.

_I’d really like to know what the hell’s going on._

The lad was having none of it. “Come on!”

Sandor held his ground. “Look, you go back and tell Sansa Stark that I’m on Bronn’s trail. I’m pretty sure Hamper financed the whole thing. The Irish are his workers.”

“No they’re not, and even if they are it doesn’t matter!” The boy said in a surprisingly girlish voice. “The workers are going for the mill _now_. You know Sansa – do you think she’ll run and hide just because of a hundred angry workers? Or do you think she’ll stay put and try to argue her way out of it? Hm?”

Sandor cast one last furious glance at the house across the street and then grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “Listen to me quickly, run for the soldiers. Tell them to get to Mockingbird Mills, quick. The workers will be out of their heads with rage. I’ll try to talk them down, but you’ve got to bring in the backup.”

“On it.” The boy was gone in the blink of an eye.

Sandor turned and headed the other way. He knew a thing or two about how the Little Bird approached conflict, and he knew she’d never back down or run. He also knew she’d never call for force herself. She was all about the long game, and she’d never risk her relationship with the workers by using force to break up a riot.

_Well I’m not afraid to be the bad guy_. Sandor broke into a run as he headed for the mill.

_I only hope I’m in time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every week I think I'll get to the scene that is the big centerpiece of North and South, and each week it doesn't happen. I really thought this would be it, but this chapter just got longer and longer, so now it's two chapters and we'll get to The Thing next week.


End file.
